An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West

Arising to his knees, he groaned as though in seeming pain, and gripped his right wrist with his left hand.

“Oh, oh! Eesa da hurt-a bad. Break-a da arm; oh, oh!” And in order to get her close to him, he said, “Get-a da bot’ in-a da pock’.”

The cunning fellow knew well how to touch the chord of sympathy that is ever present in the guileless heart of innocent childhood.

The response came in a wondering look of infinite tenderness and compassion, for the child did not clearly comprehend Jack’s request and she asked:

“Did you break your arm?”

“Eesa da hurt-a bad. Oh, oh!” he groaned, “get-a da bot’, da bot’-a, child; get-a da bot’.”

“Poor man! Shall I run for the doctor?”

“No, no, no, note-a da dock! Help-a me get-a da bot’ in-a da pock! Quick-a, deeze-a side. Put in-a da hand. Take eem out – oh, oh!”

Perceiving that he meant her to take something out of his pocket, on the right side of his coat, and not understanding the significance of the word “bot,” she drew near to thrust in her hand.

That instant Jack’s left arm encircled her form and his right hand clapped the saturated handkerchief over her mouth and nostrils and held her to him.

She struggled in his arms to free herself, but without avail.

As a feeling of stupor stole over her senses, Jack, still on his knees, watched her with the keenest of eyes, and muttered soothingly, “Eesa nice-a da girl. Nice-a da smell lak-a da dreamy Italy.”

Some rascals would have made short work of the matter, but Jack was by nature very tender and considerate of children, which accounted for his slow application of the powerful drug. It soon had her under its influence, and when she became limp and nerveless he laid her on the grass. Again he saturated the handkerchief and held it to her nostrils, and with distended, tragic eyes watched her doze into unconsciousness.

Feeling satisfied that she would not speedily recover, he let the handkerchief lie loose on her nostrils and mouth, then he arose to his feet and with the stealthy, catlike tread of an Indian, skulked from shadow to shadow until he had made a complete circuit of the spot.

Having assured himself that no one was in the vicinity, he swiftly turned and again fell on his knees beside the child.

He looked intently in her face and noted the sweet expression of childish innocence and trust in the repose. “She sleeps, beautiful child! As sweetly innocent and confiding as God ever inspired with the breath of life.”

Then from under his coat, where a hump appeared in the back, he drew out a grey woolen cloth about four feet square and folded it about the child, gathered her in his arms and arose to his feet.

“Mine, mine, though no harm shall come to you, pretty one! Twenty thousand dollars shall be the price of your liberty.”

And, keeping in the shadows and away from the lights as much as possible, he wended his way toward the river and soon became obscured in the distant gloom.

When John Thorpe, closely followed by Rutley, entered the great ballroom in search of Corway, the guests who saw him were struck with the pallor of his face and the strangely piercing yet lustreless dark eyes that shone out from beneath his shaggy, frowning eyebrows. His cold, stony look repelled all smiles and discouraged all questions. Through the room he strode, regardless alike of the timid whisperings of women and offended stare of men. He cared not what they thought, for every sentiment of rudeness or discourtesy, every tender feeling of grief or pain, was drowned by his one great mad, overpowering passion to wreak summary vengeance on the author of his bitter shame.

Not for a moment had he suspected “My Lord’s” integrity and utter disinterestedness, and the maddening fire of his disgrace kindled within him and fanned to a crucible heat by Rutley burned with unquenchable fury.

Men of the temperament of John Thorpe are not blessed with a stoical mind in moments of great excitement, nor are they apt to pause and tranquilly reason out the pros and cons of this most prolific source of human tragedies.

He had loved his wife too fondly and too well to go and openly charge her with unfaithfulness.

His life heretofore had been very happy, but now the first “damned spot” in the clear blue of his domestic horizon would not out, the feeling of suspicion would not smother. And it grew and enlarged with amazing rapidity, and haunted him till the very thought of Corway aroused his latent jealousy to a pitch that became unbearable. Rutley had developed the demon within him.

The love that had become a fixed part of his being, flooding him with its radiance, had been violently wrenched from his heart, and his only, all-absorbing, insatiable desire was to confront the man who was responsible for it.

Oh, for the frailty of human happiness!

Out near the steps of the east piazza a group of ladies and gentlemen, composed of Mr. and Mrs. Harris, Mr. Corway and Hazel were chatting merrily about the new waltz and incidentally they had referred to the prolonged absence of “My Lord” and John Thorpe from the ballroom. Mrs. Harris discovered them on the piazza approaching the steps and exclaimed, “Ah, here come the truants.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, John Thorpe descended the steps alone, Rutley remaining on the piazza.

“Mr. Harris,” said John Thorpe in a husky voice, “in the name of the society whom he contaminates, I demand that you eject that man from this place.”

This peremptory and extraordinary demand, coupled with its insinuation, stunned the hearers, who looked from one to the other in startled amazement.

The dead silence that followed was broken by Mr. Harris, who answered in a grave, dazed way, as thoughts of Thorpe’s sanity flitted through his brain, “But, Thorpe! I – what – I don’t think – my hearing is not exactly right of late. I did not understand – ”

Without removing his steady gaze from Corway, Mr. Thorpe reiterated his words slowly and with stinging accentuation, “I demand that you eject that man from this place,” and he pointed his finger dramatically at Corway, while glints of merciless intent shot from his eyes.

The red flushed into Mr. Harris’s face as he realized the indignity his guests and himself were being subjected to.

“Thorpe – John – you are insulting all of us. Mr. Corway is my guest. What is the meaning of this affront to my hospitality?”

“To defend my honor!” cried the distracted man, lost to all sense of propriety or decorum, “or to add my blood to the other crimes that disgrace him.”

“In the name of all that’s astounding, what do you mean, Thorpe?” exclaimed Corway.

“I mean that I intend to avenge the irreparable wrong I have suffered,” replied Mr. Thorpe, fairly hissing the words from between his teeth.

“Irreparable wrong! To whom do you refer?”

“To you, scoundrel! Tell how you came by that ring!”

Mr. Harris had listened to the two men with ill-concealed impatience, but when Mr. Thorpe called Mr. Corway, one of his guests, a scoundrel, and dangerous business appearing imminent, he could control his indignation no longer and shouted, “Mr. Thorpe’s carriage immediately! Here, Sam, your assistance. Wells, get some more help to maintain order.”

The words had scarcely been uttered, when Sam, who had appeared with Virginia on the piazza, sprang down the steps to his uncle’s assistance. They were quickly joined by the coachman and gardener who, having chanced to meet in a nearby secluded angle of the porch, had heard the loud, passionate words and were at once available for duty.

“Hold, Mr. Harris!” spoke up Corway, who seemed to be less disturbed than either Thorpe or his host, “don’t be hasty in this matter! Mr. Thorpe is certainly laboring under some delusion.”

“I will not listen to you,” replied Mr. Harris, now worked up to a fury. “Mr. Thorpe’s conduct is outrageous. Away with him to his carriage.”

“I guess so!” responded Sam, pulling off his coat and looking at his uncle sideways, “stampede the corral, eh, uncle? That’s what you want!”

“Away with him!” repeated Mr. Harris, gesticulating with his arms wildly.

The two lackeys advanced, encouraged no doubt by the assurance of Sam’s assistance.

They were brought to an abrupt halt by Corway, who stepped in front of them and declared with heat, “Stand back! I demand an explanation!”

In a low, hoarse voice that quivered with the intensity of his passion, with ghastly white face, and glittering eyes that flashed the lie to his forced calmness, Thorpe replied: “You shall have it – blackguard, liar, and coward!” With which he struck Corway on the mouth with the back of his closed hand.

Corway passionately rushed at him and attempted to strike, but Mr. Harris sprang between them and caught his upraised arm, and with the help of Sam, separated them.

When Sam sprang down the steps to his uncle’s assistance, Virginia was left standing on the piazza watching the progress of the quarrel with intense interest and also evidently alarmed at the violent passion her brother displayed.

With a woman’s intuition, she surmised that Rutley had worked on John’s jealous susceptibilities with merciless finesse.

Rutley, who was watching her, noted her alarmed expression, and feeling it to be a sign of weakening purpose, stepped over and stood beside her, so silently that she was quite unaware of his presence.

“It’s a horrible wrong,” she muttered.

The words were caught by Rutley, and he whispered, so close as to startle her, “Remember the wrong Corway has done you.”

The excited men barely had been separated when Corway spoke with passionate emphasis, “You shall hear from me.”

“Quite soon enough for your courage,” sneered Thorpe.

“No, no, my brother shall not fight with him!” exclaimed Virginia, appalled at the magnitude the quarrel had assumed.

Swiftly she glanced at Rutley and said with tremulous lips: “What have you told him to cause such fearful passion?”

“What you bade me,” he coolly replied, and with a gloating smile on his lips, added: “The result is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Not so terrible,” she gasped. “There must be some awful mistake.”

And Rutley’s smile deepened, but as he looked into her horrified eyes and blanched face, and noted the change from vengeance to anxiety and consternation fast coming over her, he knew but too well when the change was complete, in a moment of frenzied zeal to explain and save her brother, she, womanlike, was likely to undo and wreck all his work.

He realized that the moment was fraught with the gravest danger to his plans and person, and he acted quickly, but with the utmost coolness.

Her hand held straight down by her side was closed tightly, expressive of immediate and determined action.

He gripped her wrist. It hurt her. The action concealed from others by the folds of her dress, succeeded in diverting her attention, and he followed it up by whispering, so that she alone heard him, “Remember – the material you gave me; Corway has met his deserts and you are avenged!”

And then the voice of Constance cleft the air, in a wild, terrifying scream. “John, John! Save Dorothy! She’s adrift on the water.”

Her piercing cry freighted with a mother’s anguish, at once filled all who heard it with consternation, in the midst of which Mrs. Harris exclaimed, “Dear me, how dreadful it all is!”

All turned in the direction of the cry and almost immediately Constance, in an agony of despair, and deathly white, frantically rushed among them.

She looked appealingly from one to the other, her heart in her throat and pathos in her voice. “I heard her cry, ‘Mama! Papa! Help! Save me!’ Oh, will no one rescue my darling?”

“I’m off,” said Sam, in his short, sententious way, and rushed toward the river.

The sudden strain on her nerves was greater than Constance could bear.

Naturally of a weak constitution, the ordeal was overpowering; the mother’s affection, forming a magnetic part of her heart, leapt out to her child and left her numb and cold almost unto death, and then her limbs trembled, and with Sam’s words ringing in her ears, down she sank, a senseless being.

Virginia’s consternation was complete. She rushed down the steps, knelt beside her prostrate form, thrust her arm lovingly under her head and sobbed: “Constance! Dear Constance! Don’t give way so. Dorothy will be found.”

CHAPTER III

When Constance revived, she found herself in a quiet room remote from noise or intrusion, whither she had been tenderly carried. Virginia was with her, and with the aid of a professional nurse, who lived near by and was called in by Mrs. Harris, had been successful in restoring her to consciousness.

The reception was still swinging along at its full height, and while a few of the guests had heard in an indifferent way of some trouble on the lawn, the reports were so varied and coupled with the fact that no names were obtainable to give the reports zest, the incident was soon forgotten, and by the great mass of the guests was not even heard of.

It was a sore spot in her breast that throbbed and beat heavily upon the door of its prison as later she was being driven home in her carriage. Not a word from John to soothe the aching void. She did not even inquire about him, contenting herself with the simple assurance that he was doing his best to find Dorothy.

For two days the strain was upon her, breaking down by its heart violence her constitution, already frail to the declining point. Scarcely more than a year had passed since Constance had been stricken down with typhoid fever of a malignant type.

She had never regained her usual health and strength, and though the family physician had pronounced her recovery complete, there were those of her friends who, with bated breath, questioned his conclusion and predicted an after effect which in time would develop some strange and serious ailment.

Telephone inquiries regarding the lost child began to come in the second day, but none of any comfort to the distracted mother.

Not one intimation of her husband’s quarrel with Corway had reached her. Mrs. Harris had been careful, upon Constance’s recovery at the reception, not to breathe a word, or to allow, where she could control it, the faintest whisper likely to arouse her suspicion.

And as for Hazel, she had not clearly understood Mr. Thorpe’s drift when he assaulted Corway. Nevertheless, she somehow had a vague idea that Constance was the cause; but being a discreet young woman, she had refrained from mentioning anything about it to her, thus leaving Constance completely ignorant of the true cause of John Thorpe’s absence from home.

Perhaps if she had not been so absorbed in the recovery of Dorothy, her attention would have been arrested on perusing one of the daily papers by an ambiguous paragraph referring to a choice morsel of scandal on the “tapis” in a prominent family, and which was likely to terminate in a tragedy. It was a society paragraph separate from the report of the probable drowning of the child, Dorothy Thorpe. Several personal acquaintances had become aware, through the crafty Rutley, of a serious difference having arisen between John Thorpe and his beautiful wife, and some of these personal acquaintances, with significant looks, at once connected it with the mysterious disappearance of the child.

The fact that none of the fashionable set had visited her since the reception did not suggest a thought of being shunned. And so she waited for news of her child – waited with heart leaden with the chill of hope deferred – waited in momentary expectation of the home-coming of John.

She watched for him through the window, foreshadowing by his appearance on the walk gladness or sorrow.

“It is now the second day,” she muttered, “since that eventful night, and yet no relief from this awful suspense. No word to cheer, or lead me to hope that Dorothy lives.”

“It is no use grieving so much, Constance,” broke in Hazel, who had just entered the room. “Dorothy may be safe with her father, somewhere. Try, dear, to think so, anyway. It is much the best.”

“I cannot put away that winsome face from my mind, Hazel. Something tells me that I shall see her no more,” and tears came into her eyes, despite her efforts to restrain them.

“There, yees be at it again, sure mam, yees do be makin’ us all feel miserable.”

It was Smith who spoke, in a soft, appealing voice, full of sympathy and tenderness, the common heritage of his race. He had entered the room by the parlor door, and stood with his hat in his hand – a short, thick-set man, with a full, smooth-shaven, ruddy face, strong in its lines of “true to a trust.” His thin hair was tinged with gray. He wore a black frock coat that had seen considerable wear; in fact, that style of a coat was worn by him for the double purpose of partly concealing the “humiliating” curves of his short bent legs, and also the dignity he fancied it lent to his stature. He had been the family coachman for some years, and was familiarly called “Smith.”

As Constance turned to him, he continued with a look suggestive of tearful sympathy.

“Will yees try to forget the trouble, and be the token av it, may it plaise ye mam, just wipe away that tear, do, dear.”

“You have always been a good soul, Smith,” and Constance tried to smile through her tears.

“Of course, but we are anxious to know the result of your search,” remarked Hazel.

He was silent for a moment, and nervously commenced to fidget with his hat.

“Sure, ave yees’l wait till I think ave all the places I whint to, and all the people I sphoke to” – and he dolefully muttered under his breath – “Sure I dunno what I’ll rayport at all, at all – ”

“You are very thoughtful and persistent, Smith,” responded Constance.

“Yis, indade, mam, I try to be that very same. Sure, wasn’t I up at Rose-a-mant and walked the bache there and watched the boats, but niver a sight did I git ave Mr. Thorpe.”

“I know John is leaving no stone unturned to find Dorothy,” assured Constance, “but you, poor man, you must be tired with your long walk.”

“The walk was long, but me heart was warrum for yees, and I didn’t moind it at all, at all. Sure, the child may not be in the water at all. Will yees try to think so, dear?” And again the beseeching look came over his expressive face.

“Do you think so, Smith?” interrogated Hazel.

“Well, I ’ave me own ideas, Miss, and to be plain, and not hurtin’ yees failin’s, I think she was kidnapped.”

“You do?” questioned Hazel, surprised, for such a possibility had never crossed her mind.

“I do,” he replied.

“Sure, I have no rason to think so, Miss, at all, at all; but says I to myself, says I, ‘I’ll just flim-flam around the ‘dago’ quarters in South Portland, on me own account, keeping a sharp lookout betimes.’”

“What did you find there?” again asked the girl.

“Nothin’ I wanted, Miss, unless it war a sassy fellow wid a big black moustache, and a skin full ave greenbile.”

“But you were not looking for him,” replied Hazel.

“Not wan bit, Miss, though I do belave now he do be lookin’ for me. Indade, Miss, I was not failin’ well at all, at all. Sure, wasn’t the little darlint missin’, and between the sorrow at home and the failin’ in me heart, and the long walk, and the cowld mornin’, and the sassy look the fellow gave me – ”

“What were you doing that so offended him?” interrupted Hazel.

“Indade, I was just walkin’ around Carbut Strate and Hood Strate for a little divarsion – not wan bit more or less, Miss – an’ he axed me what I wanted. Says I to him, says I, respectful-like, ‘Maybe yees can tell me did yees see a little girl strayin’ about widout a home. A lady sint me to inquire.’

“He immejetly made some raymark, quick an’ sharp-like, about the dam desavin’ wimmen – ”

“Oh!” Hazel exclaimed, interrupting him.

“Shocking!” exclaimed Constance.

“Sure – and I beg yees pardon fir sayin’ it, darlints, but that’s just what he towld me and niver a wink whint wid it, the blackguard!

“I up and axed him who he’d be refarrin’ to, because I had in my moind a sartin lady wid trouble ave her own.

“He says, says he, wid a snarl, ‘None ave yees business.’

“Widout thinkin’ whether he meant anything by it or not, I tould him he was a gintleman and a liar, too. So I did.”

“You insulted him!” exclaimed Hazel, astounded.

“Indade I did, Miss, in foine style, sure” – and he spoke softly to Hazel – “he got it right betwix the two eyes, and I followed it wid wan on the soule ave his plexis.”

“You did!” Hazel exclaimed, amazed, yet with an irrepressible smile that flickered about her pretty mouth.

“I did!” he replied gravely.

“Is the soul of one’s plexus in his eyes, Smith?” interrogated Hazel.

“Sure, some say it do be the cramps; but I think it do be trouble ave the bowels, Miss,” he answered.

“Poor man!” exclaimed Constance, and she looked at Smith reproachfully.

He quickly turned to her with a disgusted look on his face, and slowly exclaimed, “Yis mam!”

During the silence that followed Smith realized that he had spoken hastily and rude, and the disgust so palpably in evidence quickly merged into a look of grave concern.

His native wit, however, came to his aid in a singular apology.

“While the fellow hunted for a soft spot on the pavement, I called up a nearby doctor to help him,” he said.

“You shall be repaid,” Constance assured him in an absent manner.

“Plaise God, it will not be the ‘dago’ who’ll do it!” he solemnly replied, and then he softly asked.

“Be there any more arders, mam?”

“No, Smith, you must be in need of rest. Thank you for all your kindness,” and Constance turned from him with grief, unaffected, still on her face. “God bless yees!” he replied, and then as he turned to leave the room, said to himself, “I shud loike to see the wan – bad luck to him – who brought all this trouble on the poor missus,” and he shut his teeth tight in silent rage.

After he had gone Constance pressed her hand down on the top of her head and said distractedly, “Still no word of encouragement; no relief to this strain that seems to be tearing my brain asunder!”

Under the circumstances, inaction, to one of Hazel’s temperament, was anything but pleasant, and the young girl was to be condoned rather than censured for desiring to get away from the distress that pervaded the house. Moreover, she felt that something must be done to relieve the strain that weighed so heavily upon Constance.

“Don’t you think I had better see Mrs. Harris, dear?” she said, with a wistful look of sympathy at Constance. “Perhaps she may have something to tell.”

“Very well,” replied Constance. “Do, dear, if you think some good may come from your visit. Virginia may be home soon and I shall not be alone.”

“I shall get my wraps.”

After Hazel had left the room, Constance, dispirited and sadly out of harmony with Smith’s simple recital of his search for Dorothy, stepped out on the piazza, as though the air of the close room oppressed her.

The sky was cloudy, the air raw and cold.

Dorothy’s pet canary, with its bill thrust under its wing, rested on the perch of its cage, glum and inert, immediately before her.

“Poor thing!” she exclaimed tenderly. “Sweet, sweet! Look up, pet!”

The dainty little beauty, with a throat of silky mellowness, looked curiously about, gave a “cheep” of recognition and then again buried its bill under its wing.

“Even my darling’s pet will not be comforted.” And tears stole into her eyes as she turned away from the bird. “Oh, Sam, I’ve been so anxious to hear from you! Have you found my darling?”

Sam had approached the steps unseen by her, and when she turned away from the bird he stood directly in front of her, though at a little distance.

Her mind at once recalled his words, which rang in her ears as she sank to the ground on that fateful night of the reception, and it was therefore the first and most natural question uppermost in her mind when she saw him.

He started back in evident surprise and answered confusedly:

“Well – I – I am sure, Mrs. Thorpe, if I had found her, I should only be too glad to – to tell you.”

“And you have no tidings of her? But – come in, I am sure something important brought you here.”

She entered the house, followed by Sam, who muttered to himself, “She’s conjuring tears already, but I’m proof, were they to fall like rain. I guess so!”

Upon entering the room he looked at her steadfastly and quizically.

There was something in his look, too, that bore the imprint of effrontery.

She stared at him and asked timidly with alarm in her voice. “Oh, what do you know of her?”

“I – I – beg your pardon, Mrs. Thorpe, but – well, the truth is, I called to know if you have any information of her.”

“How can you ask that question of me?” replied Constance brokenly, while again the tears welled up in her eyes.

“You see, madam – ahem! You won’t be offended with me, for God knows I do not mean any offense to you, but – ahem – you see, madam, you are the unhappy cause of as fine a hearted gentleman as was ever born being a broken-spirited, a – a – blighted man!”

“Sam!” she affrightedly exclaimed. “What are you saying?”

“This,” continued he, with dauntless determination, “and I’ll tell you the truth. You are the talk of the town, and they say you – you – you’ve secured the child from your husband.”

Her face became ashy white as the meaning of John’s absence from home dawned on her mind. She staggered, then sank into a chair. Presently she looked up with a sort of dazed, wandering expression and tried to smile through watery eyes. “My cup of woe is very full, Sam! Please don’t jest with me!”

He wiped the perspiration from his brow, for he felt his resolution to accomplish what he had set out to do was fast crumbling.

He rushed on, “I am not jesting. No, I guess not! I know I am paining you, but I have a duty to do which I shall do, as I have always done through my life. And as this affair occurred at my uncle’s place, they say he knows more about it than he cares to tell, which he doesn’t. And I have come to see if you really don’t know something of the whereabouts of Dorothy, as that would relieve my uncle and aunt of much embarrassment – at least – I guess so!”

Her lips trembled with the pathos of her reply: “Did I know of the fate of my child, heaven could not bless me with a more joyful desire – to let you know, to let your aunt know, that Dorothy is – is safe. As it is, I would to heaven that I were dead and with my darling.” And her head fell forward on the table as a burst of heart-rending agony shook her frame.

It was evident Sam was uneasy and much affected by her distress. He coughed and tried to clear his throat again and again. “Ahem! – you must excuse me, Mrs. Thorpe – ahem! But – but, Lord – Lord! I can’t bear to hear you take on that way. Ahem! Ahem! I’m rough and thoughtless in my way, and it seems harsh and brutal to speak to you as I have done – I guess so! – and if any man in my hearing says you have hidden your child – why, by Heavens, I’ll knock the lie back through his teeth.”

Sam had forgotten his resolution to resist the influence of a woman’s tears; moreover, he felt convinced he was standing in the presence of a true, atrociously wronged and much slandered woman, and in his eagerness to undo the wrong he had done her by practically charging her with the wrecking of her husband’s happiness and connivance at the child’s disappearance, had lost control of that gentleness he felt due to the weaker sex, especially this bereaved woman. He stammered an apology in a soft regretful tone of voice.

“I – I – beg your pardon. I – I could not help it. These expressions will slip out now and again, won’t they? I guess so. I am satisfied you are deeply grieved about Dorothy, and I’m interested in her, too. The fact is, I was so anxious on my aunt’s account that I have behaved like a brute. Now please understand me, you are not friendless, for I shall do my best for you, and if Dorothy is out of water I’m going to find her. I’m off now, so good-bye!”

And he was gone – glad to get away from the distress that raised a lump in his throat which all his labored coughing could not dislodge.

Sam had entered her presence a scoffer. He had made up his mind that her grief was as deceitful as her reputed double life. He departed, her firm friend and almost choked with disgust at his own readiness to believe the foul reports, magnified by gossiping busybodies.

Gradually Constances’ emotion subsided. She sat upright in the chair. A significant dryness had come into her eyes as she stared at the wall with profound abstraction. Out of the haze John Thorpe’s picture gradually emerged.

Suddenly she exclaimed in strangely low tones, almost a whisper – tones in which a woman’s life was projected on the horoscope of faithfulness, immutable as the “Rock of Ages”:

“John! John! You are breaking my heart!”

Then her mind began to settle upon one object – to see her husband, John Thorpe.

“It must be some mistake!” she muttered. “It cannot be so. John would never treat me thus. I will have Smith seek him and deliver a message at once.”

She went to her desk and wrote a hasty note, requesting John to come home to her immediately. With the sealed note in her hand, she hurried out to find Smith. She found him fast asleep on an old couch just inside the coach-house door, and remembering his tired look, softly said: “Poor man! How fatigued he must be! After all, what matters it for a few hours?” And then, instead of arousing him, she took his coat off the rack and gently covered him, murmuring in a broken voice that betrayed the pathos of her trouble: “Asleep, with the peace of God resting on his face. Heaven bless and reward your faithful heart. Sleep on.”

Returning to the house, she sat down at the table to think of a possible something she had done to cause John’s unkind behavior.

A shadow darkened the doorway. She turned mechanically. A tall, grave and elderly gentleman, with stooping shoulders and bared head, stood in the entrance.

Constance arose. He approached her and said softly: “I beg to apologize for the intrusion. The door being open, and seeing you within, I entered unannounced.”

“Oh, Mr. Williams! Have you any tidings of Dorothy?”