ampaigning, and he rejoined his troop, somewhat
pallid and graver looking, the result probably of long days of toil over
his drawing board. He was only a few hours at Ransom before they
marched, but the ladies wanted to know all about Mrs. Davies and what
she was to do in his absence. Mrs. Davies would remain at Urbana, said
he, where her father and sister dwelt, and those were indeed his
injunctions to her, and for a month after his departure she observed
them, then repaired to Chicago and Aunt Almira's roof. Davies by this
time was with his troop scouting near Yellowstone Park, far beyond reach
of telegrams or letters. Society was unusually gay that summer. There
was dancing, boating, dining, summer resorting, and one of the loveliest
of summer resorts within an hour's run of the great city was Forest
Glen, the seat of the famous seminary where Agatha Loomis was enjoying
the quiet of her vacation, and one night, strolling with Mrs. Forrester
over to the hotel to watch the dancers and hear the lovely music, she
came face to face in the soft moonlight with a couple so absorbed in
their conversation that not until they were actually brushing by did
they look up, and even Mrs. Forrester saw the sudden confusion and
dismay in their faces. The man turned white and made a hurried movement
as though to lift his hat. The woman flushed, almost angrily. Miss
Loomis bowed calmly and coldly and passed on without a word.

The next day, however, she called at the Glen House, where the two
Almiras, aunt and niece, were spending the week, and asked for Mrs.
Percy Davies. Mrs. Davies was out. Miss Loomis wrote a few words in
pencil, slipped them into an envelope, sent that up, and the next day
called again, and Mrs. Davies begged to be excused. Miss Loomis sadly
went home, penned a long letter to Mrs. Davies, and on the following
morning sent it. In half an hour her messenger and note returned. Mrs.
Davies had left for home that morning. Urbana was not far away, and two
days later Miss Loomis was there inquiring for Mrs. Davies on her native
heath. She had not returned. She was visiting her aunt at Forest Glen,
and then Agatha knew she had come too late. She had striven to prove to
the poor empty-headed, empty-hearted girl that she had at least one
friend. She had hoped to plead, to point out the right, and, if
possible, save her from herself and the impending step, but all to no
purpose. Two years later, among the papers of her unhappy