She is bending over the bedside, mingling entreaty and soothing words with her tears; striving to induce her raging old father to lay himself down and take the medicine that the panic-stricken nurse is vainly offering. The doctor seems to have but one thought--wrath and indignation that he, the father of a son who died so gallantly, should have been accused of so vile a crime; he has but one desire, to rise and dress, and confront his accusers. If ever man needed the strong arm of a son to rest on at this moment, it is poor old Warren. If ever woman needed the aid and presence of a gallant lover, it is this sweet, half-distracted Bessie; and if ever man looked thoroughly fit to fill all requirements, it is the self-same young major of staff who comes striding in and grasping the situation with a soldier's glance. Heaven! How her eyes light and beam at sight of him! How even through her tears, the flush of hope and joy springs to her cheek. How eagerly, trustfully, she turns to him, as though knowing all must now be well. "Oh, papa! here is Mr. Abbot," she exclaims, and says it as though she felt that nothing more could ever be needed. He steps between her and the staring eyes of the old gentleman; bends quickly down over him. "Yes, doctor. Paul Abbot, whom you thought killed," and he gives him a significant glance; a glance that warns him to say no word that might undeceive her. "I have just had news of this extraordinary charge. I've come to you, quick as legs can carry me, to tell you that you are to lie perfectly still, and rest this burden with me. Don't stir; don't worry; don't say one word. I'm going straight to the provost-marshal's to tell them what I know, and explain away this whole thing. A most extraordinary piece of scoundrelism is at the bottom of it all, but I am beginning to understand it, fully. Doctor, will you trust me? Will you let me try and be Guthrie to you to-night; and promise me to lie still here until I come back from the provost-marshal's?" "Do, father!" implores Bessie, bending over him, too. There is a look of utter bewilderment in the doctor's haggard face, but he says no word. For a moment he gazes from one to the other, then drops back upon the pillow, his eyes fixed on Abbot's face. "I am all unstrung, weak as a child," he murmurs; "I cannot understand; but do as you will." There are voices in the hall; the clink of spurs and sabre; and a cavalry orderly makes his appearance at the door. "I was to give this to Major Abbot, instantly," he says, saluting and holding forth an envelope. Abbot takes and tears it open. The message is brief enough, but full of meaning: "Your presence necessary here at once to explain the papers found on Doctor Warren. Looks like a case of mistaken identity." It is signed by the young officer whom he met on the occasion of his last visit. [Illustration: "_A cavalry orderly makes his appearance at the door_"]