y were ready, and at last March--to whom, as he
stood at his window fully dressed, the few moments had seemed an
hour--saw Fair drive swiftly by and fade into the gloom. Charlie
Champion came toward the hotel, bringing Parson Tombs. March put on his
hat, but for many minutes only paced the darkening room. Finally he
started for the stairs, and half way down them met the Doctor.

"Why, bless my soul, John," he good-naturedly cried, "this is quite
_too_ fast."

"I reckon not, Doctor; I believe I'm well. I don't understand it, but
it's so." He endured the Doctor's hand for a moment on his wrist and
temples.

"Why, I declare!" laughed the physician with noisy pleasure, "I believe
yo' right!" As they descended he explained how such recoveries are
possible and why they are so rare, citing from medical annals a case or
two whose mention John thought very unflattering.

"I should like to know what's become of Johanna," said March at the foot
of the stairs.

"Johanna? O they say she ran all the way to Fannie Ravenel's, and they
harnessed up the fast colt and put off for Rosemont, Johanna driving!"

"Why, of course! I might have known it! But"--John stopped--"Why, then,
where's Fair?"

"O I saw him. He drove on to overtake 'em. He'll have a job of it!"

"Firefly can do it," said March, picturing the chase to himself. "But
I--I wonder what--This is no time--Why--why, what did he want to do it
for?"

"O he may have had the best of reasons," said the amiable Doctor, and
departed.

Outside a certain door--"Why, John March!" murmured Tom Hersey. The
voices of Garnet and Parson Tombs could be heard within. They ceased as
the landlord modestly rattled the knob, and when he gave the visitor's
name Garnet's voice said:

"Ask him in."

As March entered, only Parson Tombs rose to meet him. He had a large
handkerchief in his fingers, his eyes were very red, and he gave his
hand in silence. Garnet, too, had been weeping. He shaded his downcast
eyes from the lamp. March had determined to give himself no time for
feelings, but his voice was suddenly not his own as he began, "Major
Garnet," and stopped, while Garnet slowly lifted his face until the
light shone on it. March stood still and felt his heart heave between
loathing and compassion; for on that lamp-lit face one hour of public
shame had written more guilt than years of secret perfidy and sin, and
the question rushed upon the young man's mind, Can this be the author of
a