e brought to the morning of Thursday, the sixth since the
eventful night when Miriam Arnold's shriek had alarmed the
garrison--Miriam, whose voice had now been heard a second time, upraised
in frantic dread and appeal, but this time for the young soldier who, on
the previous Friday night, forgetful of his arrest, had rushed forth at
her cry, but this night had to be dragged--Miriam who now lay sick from
maidenly shame that in one wild appeal to save her lover she had so
betrayed herself.

With Thursday noon came resumption of telegraphic communication, and the
long-stalled railway trains from east and west. With Thursday afternoon
came "wires" from Arnold, the father, begging to know had his daughter
started, and back went the electric message that she neither had nor
could, nor would for a week--"full details by post." With Thursday
evening came stacks of belated letters, "with whole bales of
newspapers," said the stage driver, to follow, and with Thursday
midnight, long after every one had gone to bed, there came a tapping at
Major Stannard's storm door, and presently a fumbling at the bell knob,
a clanging of the bell.

"What now?" thought the sleepy major, as he scuttled down-stairs in
slippers and dressing-gown. "Who's there?" he growled, as he unbolted
the door. That fire down the line had made people nervous. There was no
saying how it started.

"It is Mayhew, sir," said a solemn voice. "I've come not hoping, only
praying, I may find my daughter here."

"Good God!" said Stannard. "Come in," and led forthwith his aged and
trembling comrade within doors, seated him by the still glowing stove
in the front room, and struck a light. In less than a minute Mrs.
Stannard, too, had joined them, her kind blue eyes filled with tender
pity and sorrow. She, at least, was not entirely unprepared. Poor
motherless Dora had no lack of friendly counsel and fond, womanly
sympathy when once she could be brought to lay her burden there. If only
she had earlier sought that wise and winsome monitor! But Mrs. Stannard
had not been at Frayne in the early summer, not until the major was
assigned to station at Cushing had the good wife joined him, and
meanwhile there had been no hand to guide, only a fond and passionate
young heart. And now, with his gray hairs bowed in sorrow to the dust,
poor Mayhew had come to tell his piteous tale. Ever since young Rawdon
had gone with the paymaster she had been fitful and nervous. Ever since
thei