d lay in an undulating mass of gold all over her pretty head.
Whatever sorrows life had for him were nothing compared to the joy of
this daughter.

All his anger was gone in an instant.

"Little girl, you know it's against orders, this reading in bed," he
said in his kindly tone. Never in all her life had he spoken a cross
word to her. "You'll ruin your eyes and you must be tired."

She closed her book. "Tired--yes, I am tired. Mother's dinners are
such dreadfully long ones, and, then, daddy, to-night I've been
worrying about you. You seemed so silent at dinner--it made my heart
ache. Are you ill, daddy? or has something happened? I tried to
sleep, but I couldn't. I've been waiting for you. Tell me what has
happened--you will tell me, won't you, daddy?" Her smooth, young arms
were about his neck now. "Tell me," she pleaded in his ear.

"There's nothing to tell, little girl," he said. "I'm tired too, I
suppose; that's all. Come--you must go to sleep. Pouf!" and he blew
out the flame of the reading candle at her bedside.

* * * * *

For a long time that night Thayor sat staring into the fire in his
room, his mind going over the events of the day--the luncheon--the
talk of those around the table--the tones of Holcomb's voice as
he said, "It was about his wife," and then the added refrain: "He
couldn't get away; his little girl fell ill." How did his case differ?

Suddenly he roused himself and sprang to his feet. No! he was wrong;
there was nothing in it. Couldn't be anything in it. Alice
was foolish--vain--illogical--but there was Margaret! Nothing
would--nothing could go wrong as long as she lived.

With these new thoughts filling his mind, his face brightened. Turning
up the reading lamp on his desk he opened his portfolio, covered half
a page and slipped it into an envelope.

This he addressed to Mr. William Holcomb, ready for Blakeman's hand in
the morning.

CHAPTER THREE

Two days subsequent to these occurrences--and some hours after his
coupe loaded with his guns and traps had rumbled away to meet Holcomb,
in time for the Adirondack express--Thayor laid a note in his butler's
hands with special instructions not to place it among his lady's mail
until she awoke.

He could not have chosen a better messenger. While originally hailing
from Ireland, and while retaining some of the characteristics of his
race--his good humor being one of them--Blakeman yet possessed th