d. "You have no right to insult my guests or me. Be
calm--control yourself."

"What does it matter what I say?" Arkwright went on desperately. "I am
mad. Yes, that is it, I am mad. They have won and I have lost, and it
drove me beside myself. I counted on you. I knew that no one else could
let my people go. But I'll not trouble you again. I wish you good-night,
sir, and good-bye. If I have been unjust, you must forget it."

He turned sharply, but Stanton placed a detaining hand on his shoulder.
"Wait," he commanded querulously; "where are you going? Will you,
still--?"

Arkwright bowed his head. "Yes," he answered. "I have but just time now
to catch our train--my train, I mean."

He looked up at Stanton and taking his hand in both of his, drew the man
toward him. All the wildness and intolerance in his manner had passed,
and as he raised his eyes they were full of a firm resolve.

"Come," he said simply; "there is yet time. Leave these people behind
you. What can you answer when they ask what have you done with your
talents?"

"Good God, Arkwright," the senator exclaimed angrily, pulling his hand
away; "don't talk like a hymn-book, and don't make another scene. What
you ask is impossible. Tell me what I can do to help you in any other
way, and--"

"Come," repeated the young man firmly.

"The world may judge you by what you do to-night."

Stanton looked at the boy for a brief moment with a strained and eager
scrutiny, and then turned away abruptly and shook his head in silence,
and Arkwright passed around the table and on out of the room.

A month later, as the Southern senator was passing through the
reading-room of the Union Club, Livingstone beckoned to him, and handing
him an afternoon paper pointed at a paragraph in silence.

The paragraph was dated Sagua la Grande, and read:

"The body of Henry Arkwright, an American civil engineer, was brought
into Sagua to-day by a Spanish column. It was found lying in a road
three miles beyond the line of forts. Arkwright was surprised by a
guerilla force while attempting to make his way to the insurgent camp,
and on resisting was shot. The body has been handed over to the American
consul for interment. It is badly mutilated."

Stanton lowered the paper and stood staring out of the window at the
falling snow and the cheery lights and bustling energy of the avenue.

"Poor fellow," he said, "he wanted so much to help them. And he didn't
accomplish anything, did he