of woman's garments, and before the father's astonished eyes there stood
his daughter by the side of her lover. Her form was drawn to its full
height, her bosom was heaving, her eyes were flashing. Taking her lover's
hand, she cried: "Father, what have you done? I love this man, love him
with all my heart and soul, and he is worthy of my love. If I can never
call him husband, no other man shall ever call me wife."

The father staggered and grew deadly pale.

"O God," he moaned. "I have no daughter now. Child, child, much as I love
you, would that you were lying beside your mother."

Leaving the side of Calhoun, Joyce went to her father, and taking his
hands in hers said, "Father, grant me but a few moments' private interview
with Captain Pennington, and I promise I will never marry him without your
free and full consent. Nay, more, without your consent I will never see
him again or correspond with him."

"Joyce, Joyce!" cried Calhoun, "what are you doing? What are you
promising?" and he started toward her, but she motioned him back.

"Father! Father!" she wailed, "don't you hear?"

Mr. Crawford looked up.

"Joyce, what did you say? What do you mean?" he whispered.

Joyce repeated what she had said.

"And you mean it, Joyce? you are to stay with me?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes, but I must have a private interview with Captain Pennington before
he goes. Then it is for you to say whether I shall ever meet him again or
not."

Calhoun stood by while this conversation was going on, the great drops of
perspiration gathering on his forehead. Was he going to lose Joyce after
all?

The father arose and left the room. No sooner was he gone than she turned,
and with a low cry sank into her lover's arms.

"Joyce, Joyce, what have you done?" cried Calhoun. "Fly with me now! Let
me take you to my Kentucky home. Father will welcome you. You will not
lack the love of a father."

Joyce raised her head, her eyes swimming in tears, but full of love and
tenderness. "Hear me, Calhoun," she said, "and then you will not blame me.
We cannot marry now, we are both too young. You told me that you and your
cousin were to go to Harvard. That means four long years. Before that time
my father may give his consent to our union."

"But you told him you would not see me, would not even write. That means
banishment."

"Not from my heart," she whispered. "Calhoun, for you to attempt to see me
now, or to write to me, would be but to increa