ven her
physical existence. It seemed as if the very breath of her lungs had
been diverted to her heart, where it became tissue-searing flame.

And at Calvert House life had resolved itself into silence. The major
and his wife were striving to live in the future; striving to live
against Garrison's return. They were ignorant of the true cause of his
leaving. For Sue, the keeper of the secret, had not divulged it. She had
been left with a difficult proposition to face, and she could not face
it. She temporized. She knew that sooner or later the truth would have
to come out. She put it off. She could not tell, not now, not now. Each
day only rendered it the more difficult. She could not tell.

She had only to look at the old major; to look at his wife, to see that
the blow would blast them. She had had youth to help her, and even she
had been blasted. What chance had they? And so she said that Garrison
and she had quarreled seriously and that in sudden anger, pique, he had
left. Oh, yes, she knew he would return. She was quite sure of it. It
was all so silly and over nothing, and she had no idea he would take it
that way. And she was so sorry, so sorry.

It had all been her fault. He had not been to blame. It was she, only
she. In a thoughtless moment she had said something about his being
dependent on his uncle, and he had fired up, affirming that he would
show her that he was a man, and could earn his own salt. Yes, it had
been entirely her own fault, and no one hated herself as she did. He had
gone to prove his manhood, and she knew how stubborn he was. He would
not return until he wished.

Sue lied bravely, convincingly, whole-heartedly. Everything she did was
done thoroughly. She would not think of the future. But she could not
tell that Garrison was an impostor; a father of children. She could not
tell. So she lied, and lied so well that the old major, bewildered,
was forced to believe her. He was forced to acquiesce. He could not
interfere. He could do nothing. It was better that his nephew should
prove his manhood; return some time and love the girl, than that he
should hate her for eternity.

Each day he hoped to see Garrison back, but each day passed without that
consummation. The strain was beginning to tell on him. His heart was
bound up in the boy. If he did not return soon he would advertise,
institute a search. He well knew the folly of youth. He was
broad-minded, great-hearted enough not to censure th