Alan rose and paced the room. “That,” he said, as he stood between the lace curtains at the window, against which the rain beat steadily--“that is why I feel so blue. I don't believe Colonel Barclay would ever forgive her, and I'd die before I'd make her lose a thing.” “You are right,” returned Miller, relighting his cigar at the lamp, “and he'd cut her off without a cent. I know him. But what is troubling me is that you may not be benefited by my logic. Don't allow this to go any further. Let her alone from to-night on and you 'll find in a few months that you are resigned to it, just like the average widower who wants to get married six months after his loss. And when she is married and has a baby, she 'll meet you on the street and not care a rap whether her hat's on right or not. She 'll tell her husband all about it, and allude to you as her first, second, or third fancy, as the case may be. I have faith in your future, but you've got a long, rocky row to hoe, and a thing like this could spoil your usefulness and misdirect your talents. If I could see how you could profit by waiting I'd let your flame burn unmolested; but circumstances are agin us.” “I'd already seen my duty,” said Alan, in a low tone, as he came away from the window. “I have an engagement with her later, and the subject shall be avoided.” “Good man!” Miller's cigar was so short that he stuck the blade of his penknife through it that he might enjoy it to the end without burning his fingers. “That's the talk! Now I must mosey on down-stairs and dance with that Miss Fewclothes from Rome--the one with the auburn tresses, that says 'delighted' whenever she is spoken to.” Alan went back to the window. The rain was still beating on it. For a long time he stood looking out into the blackness. The bad luck which had come to his father had been a blow to him; but its later offspring had the grim, cold countenance of death itself. He had never realized till now that Dolly Barclay was so much a part of his very life. For a moment he almost gave way to a sob that rose and struggled within him. He sat down again and clasped his hands before him in dumb self-pity. He told himself that Rayburn Miller was right, that only weak men would act contrary to such advice. No, it was over--all, all over. VIII [Illustration: 9067] FTER the dance Frank Hillhouse took Dolly home in one of the drenched and bespattered hacks. The Barclay residence was one of the best-made and largest in town. It was an old-style Southern frame-house, painted white, and had white-columned verandas on two sides. It was in the edge of the town, and had an extensive lawn in front and almost a little farm behind.