her neck and arms, looking prettier
than ever; but the innocent eyes were gone, and I couldn't see my
little girl in the bold, handsome woman twirling there before the
footlights. She saw me, looked scared at first, then smiled, and
danced on with her eyes upon me, as if she said,--

"'See! I'm happy now; go away and let me be.'

"I couldn't stand that, and got out somehow. People thought me mad, or
drunk; I didn't care, I only wanted to see her once in quiet and try
to get her home. I couldn't do it then nor afterwards by fair means,
and I wouldn't try force. I wrote to her, promised to forgive her,
begged her to come back, or let me keep her honestly somewhere away
from me. But she never answered, never came, and I have never tried
again."

"She wasn't worthy of you, Thorn; you jest forgit her."

"I wish I could! I wish I could!" In his voice quivered an almost
passionate regret, and a great sob heaved his chest, as he turned his
face away to hide the love and longing, still so tender and so strong.

"Don't say that, Dick; such fidelity should make us charitable for
its own sake. There is always time for penitence, always certainty of
pardon. Take heart, Thorn, you may not wait in vain, and she may yet
return to you."

"I know she will! I've dreamed of it, I've prayed for it; every battle
I come out of safe makes me surer that I was kept for that, and when
I've borne enough to atone for my part of the fault, I'll be repaid
for all my patience, all my pain, by finding her again. She knows how
well I love her still, and if there comes a time when she is sick and
poor and all alone again, then she'll remember her old John, then
she'll come home and let me take her in."

Hope shone in Thorn's melancholy eyes, and long-suffering,
all-forgiving love beautified the rough, brown face, as he folded his
arms and bent his gray head on his breast, as if the wanderer were
already come.

The emotion which Dick scorned to show on his own account was freely
manifested for another, as he sniffed audibly, and, boy-like, drew his
sleeve across his eyes. But Phil, with the delicate perception of a
finer nature, felt that the truest kindness he could show his friend
was to distract his thoughts from himself, to spare him any comments,
and lessen the embarrassment which would surely follow such unwonted
confidence.

"Now I'll relieve Flint, and he will give you a laugh. Come on, Hiram,
and tell us about your Beulah."

The ge