d. But he would advise expedition--nay, he would pray for speed in the
matter of that wedlock; for every hour that barred him from his loved
one's arms would seem an age.

Thus dreamed Richard. And in the irony of fate, even while Richard was
coming to these sage, not to say delicious, decisions and giving himself
to these dreams, Storri was raving, Mr. Harley was cowering, and Dorothy
was weeping and writing that they must not meet.

When Richard arose in the morning, the first object his fond eye caught
was that dear hand-write sprawling all across the envelope: "Mr. Richard
Storms." He tore it open, and this is what he read:

Dear One:

As I write, my heart is breaking for us both. If I knew how, I
would soften what I must say. Storri has gained some fearful
ascendency over papa. Never have I seen papa look so gray and worn
and old as when he came to me. He tells me that his safety, his
life, depend on me. I am not to see you for a while. He says that
if we meet it will mean his disgrace--his destruction. I can't
explain; I have only my love for you, sweetheart, and you must not
fail me now. It will all come right, I feel sure of that; only you
must write me every day how dear I am to you, so that I shall have
something to help my courage with. Go to Bess, and believe me yours
with all my heart's love.

D.

Richard read and re-read Dorothy's note. He did not ramp off into a
temper; the first effects of it were to drive the color out of his face
and steal away his appetite. His eye grew moody, and in the end angry.
Some flame of wrath was kindled against poor Dorothy, who was so
ready--that is the way he put it to himself--to sacrifice him in defense
of her father. But the flame went out, and never attained either height
or intensity as a flame of repute and standing among flames. Richard was
too normal, too healthy, too much in love. Besides, Dorothy's note was
warped and polka-dotted with small round scars where her poor tears had
fallen as she wrote; and with that the flame of anger was quenched by
the mere sight of those tear-scars; and Richard kissed them one by
one--the tear-scars--and found, when he had kissed the last one and then
kissed it again for love and for luck, that he worshiped Dorothy the
more for being in trouble. And now Richard felt a vast yearning over her
as though she were a child. Had she not fought a gallant war with her