ed Mrs. Carroll, in quick censure of the non-restitution
that might have averted a life-time's self-reproach from Friedrich, "How
could you keep it!"

"The money itself vas nothing to me, but I hoped that through
Friedrich's poverty I might gain some power over him, and make him do
vhat I vanted. I shall see that it is r-restored to you at once,
Friedrich."

She turned to Wendell, and her face changed subtly. She became the
tempting woman, alluring in the innocence of her child-like beauty.

"Do you still mean vhat you said to me yesterday, Mr. Vendell?"

She leaned towards him a trifle--the merest trifle. Wendell stood
silent.

"Do you still vant to marry me--John?" The name was but a breath.

He stared at her as if fascinated by the spell of her glowing eyes.
With an effort he looked away from her to von Rittenheim.

"Tell me," he said, huskily, "I don't understand. Her husband? Is----?"

"She will not dishonor you," answered Friedrich to the unspoken
question.

"She'll merely br-reak your heart," completed von Sternburg, brutally.

Wendell turned to Hilda in relief, to find her drawn haughtily erect
before him. She did not notice his extended hands.

"You doubted me," she flung at him, arrogantly. "I demand from those
who love me, all--or nothing."

She swept from the room, small, proud, forceful; while John threw
himself upon a chair and buried his head in his hands.

XXVII

Dixie

Gray Eagle was trotting briskly along the road over which another hand
had guided him so often,--the Oakwood carriage-way. On his back sat
Friedrich, erectly vigorous, singing for the trees' benefit,--

"Oh, I wees' I was in Deexie,
Look away, look away!
In Deexie Land I take my stand,
To live and die in Deexie."

The aspen fluttered its yellow leaves in applause, and the sourwood
threw at him by the breeze's hand a cluster of its scarlet foliage. The
mouse-gray goldenrod nodded approval of his mood, and the oak-trees
swung their yet green boughs in sympathy with his light-hearted onward
rush.

The air was cool and warm, and bright and mellow, and all the
contradictions that make October the month of the year's mature
perfection; that middle age of the seasons, when the blossoms of folly
are past, and the fruits of the will are ripened, and the chill of bare
winter is still in the future.

Occasionally, in sheer exuberance, von Rittenheim rose high in his
stirrups and gave a whoop of gl