re, Walter."

"He has gone away again, without seeing Elizabeth?"

David cleared his throat.

"He is still a fugitive. He doesn't himself know he isn't guilty. I
think he feels that he ought not to see her until--"

"Come, come," Walter Wheeler said impatiently. "Don't try to find
excuses for him. Let's have the truth, David. I guess I can stand it."

Poor David, divided between his love for Dick and his native honesty,
threw out his hands.

"I don't understand it, Wheeler," he said. "You and I wouldn't, I
suppose. We are not the sort to lose the world for a woman. The plain
truth is that there is not a trace of Judson Clark in him to-day, save
one. That's the woman."

When Wheeler said nothing, but sat twisting his hat in his hands, David
went on. It might be only a phase. As its impression on Dick's youth
had been deeper than others, so its effect was more lasting. It might
gradually disappear. He was confident, indeed, that it would. He had
been reading on the subject all day.

Walter Wheeler hardly heard him. He was facing the incredible fact, and
struggling with his own problem. After a time he got up, shook hands
with David and went home, the dog at his heels.

During the evening that followed he made his resolution, not to tell
her, never to let her suspect the truth. But he began to wonder if she
had heard something, for he found her eyes on him more than once, and
when Margaret had gone up to bed she came over and sat on the arm of his
chair. She said an odd thing then, and one that made it impossible to
lie to her later.

"I come to you, a good bit as I would go to God, if he were a person,"
she said. "I have got to know something, and you can tell me."

He put his arm around her and held her close.

"Go ahead, honey."

"Daddy, do you realize that I am a woman now?"

"I try to. But it seems about six months since I was feeding you hot
water for colic."

She sat still for a moment, stroking his hair and being very careful not
to spoil his neat parting.

"You have never told me all about Dick, daddy. You have always kept
something back. That's true, isn't it?"

"There were details," he said uncomfortably. "It wasn't necessary--"

"Here's what I want to know. If he has gone back to the time--you know,
wouldn't he go back to caring for the people he loved then?" Then,
suddenly, her childish appeal ceased, and she slid from the chair and
stood before him. "I must know, father. I can bear it.