his father's eyes as he hands it, and the letter-bearer goes
briskly away.

His footsteps have hardly become inaudible when there is a tap at the
door, and behold! the nurse.

"You told me you would like to know when Miss Warren came out, major.
She is on the veranda now."

VIII.

Throwing over his shoulders the cape of his army overcoat, Major Abbot
hastens from his room in the direction of the little gallery or veranda
at the side of the house. Evening is just approaching, and the lights
are beginning to twinkle on the broad avenue below. He has not yet had
time to determine upon his course of conduct. If, as he begins to
suspect, it is Bessie Warren who received all those guileful letters,
his will be a most difficult part to play. He longs to speak with her as
well as to see her, but at this moment he knows not what may be expected
of him, and, rather than have to inflict mortification or pain upon so
sweet a girl, he is almost ready to wish that it had been his privilege
to write to her. The fact that her father was so overcome at his denial,
the fact that she fainted at sight of him, the fact that her first words
on reviving were to the effect that her father had told her Paul Abbot
was dead--all seemed to point to the conclusion that she had received
love-letters, and that she had become deeply interested in her unseen
correspondent. It would be no difficult matter to act the lover, and
endorse anything these letters might have said to such a girl, thinks
Abbot, as he hastens along the carpeted corridor, but then there is his
letter to Viva; there is the fact that he has virtually declined to
release her. It is this thought that suddenly "gives him pause," and, at
the very moment that he comes to the doorway leading to the veranda,
causes him to stop short and reflect.

There is a little sitting-room opening off this hallway. One or two
couples are chatting and gossiping therein, but Abbot steps past them to
the window and gazes out. As he expected, there is a view of one end of
the veranda, and there she stands, looking far out into the gathering
night.

A sweeter, lovelier face one seldom sees; so delicate and refined in
every feature, so gentle and trusting in its expression. Her deep
mourning seems only to enhance her fragile beauty, and to render more
observable the grace of her slender form. She leans against the iron
trellis-work, and one slim white hand sweeps back the sunny hair that
is p