id that?" he demanded as he made his appearance.

"That is just what we have been trying to find out," replied Mr. Sherwood,
who thought he was referring to the noise.

"I mean, who put that stone in my room?"

"What stone? I hardly think you are awake yet, Plaisted," and he regarded
him severely. "Do you know what time it is?"

Plaisted glanced at the clock, and his angry feelings were swallowed up in
the feeling of shame that spread a flush over his face.

"Heavens! I never thought it was so late as that! So we have lost the train
again by my carelessness. Too bad, Sherwood. But that joke was no light
one. Did you put up that stone?"

"What stone? I don't understand," replied Sherwood, angrily.

Plaisted turned back into the hall, and gathered up the pieces he had flung
down in his anger, then piecing it together on the table pointed to the
inscription.

A roar of laughter came from Mr. Sherwood's throat, as he took in the joke.
Dexie, hearing the laughter and knowing its cause, came boldly into the
room, ready enough to confess her share of it, now that she knew her father
would not scold very much about it.

"Dexie, did you do that?" he asked, as she appeared. "That writing looks
very familiar."

"Well, I wrote the inscription," her face never changing expression, "but I
hired another person to set the stone up. Has there been a miracle that you
have come to life again?" she added, turning to Plaisted.

"Well, I'll have to own that you have got the best of me this time, Miss
Dexie; but I'll pay you for that tombstone yet, see if I don't," and he
seated himself to his late breakfast.

There was no need to set up a monument to Plaisted's memory the next
morning, as he was down before the breakfast bell rang, and as Mr.
Sherwood kept him confined to the business they had before them, he found
no time to pay Dexie back for the trick she had played him.

During the day something occurred that referred to business matters in
Prince Edward Island; and becoming annoyed at Plaisted's equivocal answers,
Mr. Sherwood took the copy of the letter Dexie had brought home with her,
and laid it before his eyes. Plaisted read it with a puzzled brow and
shamefaced cheeks.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, in embarrassment.

"No matter; but can you deny it is yours?"

"By thunder! I guess I can! that is not my handwriting," he replied, trying
to bluff it off.

"No, the handwriting is not yours, I know. But dare y