ay has passed."

The two men walked back home in silence, Mr. Daleman thinking about the
future of his home without Alene, and Ramon thinking of his own future
home with her. When they got back to the house breakfast was ready and
they were soon seated at the table.

"Tell Alene to come down. I know the child is a little shy this morning,
but I must have her by my side this once more. Go for her, Arthur,"
said Mr. Daleman, Sr., to his son.

Arthur involuntarily drew back slightly at the request and his father
cast an inquiring look at him.

"I hate to disturb the child's slumbers. I doubt whether she slept much
last night," said Arthur, in somewhat husky tones.

"He hates to see Alene leave him," thought Mr. Daleman.

Arthur ascended the stairs and, coming to Alene's door found it slightly
ajar. He knocked, but received no response. He knocked harder, then
again and again. He knew that he had knocked hard enough to awaken one
from sleep, so he concluded that Alene must be up and in some other part
of the house. As she had left the door open, Arthur decided that the
room was prepared for entering. He had a secret desire to step in and
glance around the room in which, on the previous night, he stood in such
imminent danger of exposure. Pushing the door open, he stepped in
quickly, but far more quickly stepped out, terror stricken. Upon
Foresta's bed lay the beautiful Alene, her face covered with blood and
her hair falling over her face, dyeing itself a crimson red.

Arthur was speechless with horror. He ran his fingers through his hair,
brought his hand down over his face as if seeking by that means to clear
his brain so that he could answer the question as to whether he himself
had not committed the murder. Recovering his self-possession in a
measure, he dragged himself down stairs to where Mr. Daleman was. There
was such an awful look upon his face that Mr. Daleman was thoroughly
aroused.

"What is the trouble, Arthur?" asked Mr. Daleman.

Arthur said nothing, but made a motion in the direction of the room that
looked to be as much a sign of despair as of direction.

Mr. Daleman rushed up the stairway and into the room. A glance told him
the awful story. The kindly light that always lingered in his eyes died
out and a cold, keen glitter appeared. His form showing the slight
curvature of age, now stiffened under the iron influence of his will and
he stood erect. The tears tried to come, but he tossed the first