ey walked across the main street, "I met Sir
John Dacre at Arundel House when I was visiting Lucy Arundel last year,
and I can assure you he is not an evil-minded man."

"Indeed!" answered the father, rather amused at the relation; "you like
him, then?"

"Very much, indeed. He is a perfect old-fashioned cavalier, and the most
distinguished-looking man I ever saw, except you."

Her father laughed at the unconscious flattery.

"And the very oldest men are constantly consulting him," continued Mary,
who was on a subject which evidently interested her.

There was something in Mary's voice that made her father glance down at
her face. But he did not pursue the subject.

The months rolled on in this unrestful peace, and day by day it grew
clear that the internal troubles of the Republic were forming a
dangerous congestion.

Richard Lincoln again became an attentive reader of the newspapers. No
man in England studied more carefully the signs of the times. Daily,
too, he listened to the denunciation of the aristocrats by his radical
old friend.

"They ought to be banished!" exclaimed Mr. Patterson, one morning. "I
said it would come to this."

He pointed to an announcement of a meeting of "gentlemen who still
retained respect for their Sacred Cause," to be held at Arundel House
the following week, the wording of which was rather vague, as if
intended to convey more than the verbal meaning. The notice was signed:
"John Dacre, Bart."

"Why, that is Mary's friend," thought Richard Lincoln. And when he met
Mary, an hour later, he said, half-jestingly:

"Is your friend, Mr. Dacre, a conspirator?"

"He is only an acquaintance, papa; and I hardly know what a conspirator
is. But Mr. Dacre is certainly nothing wrong. You should see his face,
papa."

"Oh, yes; those dreamers--"

"Papa!" said Mary, almost angrily, "Mr. Dacre is not a dreamer. He is a
leader of men--a natural leader--like you!"

The eloquence of voice and gesture surprised Richard Lincoln; but he was
too puzzled by Mary's manner to reply. Looking at her as if from a
distance, he only remembered, sadly, how little of her life he had
seen--how much there was from which he had been left out in the heart of
his motherless girl.

Mary read something in his eyes that made her run to him and fold her
arms around his neck.

"You were thinking of mamma then," she whispered, with brimming eyes.

"Your face was like hers, Mary," he said, and kissed her tenderl