there to find
a sure and sudden end under the rain of bullets from a "firing squad."

John Makepiece had drawn the long straw. There was no help for it. He
rode away on a sorry nag that was given him, and from a distant height
saw the other American marched out to the place of burial, and even
waited to see the puff of smoke from the guns as the soldiers fired at
the doomed man.

The details were horrible. The effect upon Janice was a most unhappy
one. For more than an hour she sat there before her bureau in the cold
room, her gaze fastened upon the story in the newspaper.

Then the family came up to bed. Aunt 'Mira saw the light under the
girl's door.

"Janice! Janice!" she whispered. "Whatever is the matter with you?"

Aunt 'Mira had been crying and her voice was still husky. When she
pushed open the door a little way and saw the girl, she gasped out in
alarm.

"Oh, my dear!" sobbed Aunt Mira. "_Do you know?_"

Janice could not then speak. She pointed to the paper, and when Aunt
'Mira folded her in her arms, the girl burst into tears--tears that
relieved her overcharged heart.

"You run down an' open up the drafts of that stove again, Jason,"
exclaimed the fleshy lady, for once taking command of affairs. "This
child's got a chill. She's got ter have suthin' hot, or she'll be sick
on our hands--poor dear! She's been a-settin' here readin' all that
stuff Marty told us was in the paper--I do believe. Ain't that so,
child?"

Janice, sobbing on her broad bosom, intimated that it was a fact.

"That boy ain't no good. He didn't burn up the paper at all. She got
holt on it," declared Uncle Jason, quite angry.

"Oh, it wasn't--wasn't Marty's fault," sobbed Janice. "And I had to
know! I had to know!"

They got her downstairs, and Mrs. Day sent "the men folks" to bed. She
insisted upon putting Janice's feet into a mustard-water bath, and made
her swallow fully a pint of steaming hot "composition." Two hours
later Janice was able to go to bed, and, because she hoped against
hope, and was determined not to believe the story until it was
thoroughly confirmed, she fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.

When she awoke on Christmas morning, it was with a full and clear
knowledge of what had happened, and a pang of desolation and grief such
as had swept over her the night before. But she set herself to hope as
long as she could, and to suppress any untoward exhibition of her
sorrow and pain, whi