In a postscript was added: 'If anyone has stepped into Halliburn's shoes, don't fail to mention it. It will hurt, of course, but I knew my chances were at an end from the moment she found out that I had doubted her.' 'It is a long letter, father,' Dorothy said, as he laid it down beside him and turned to his neglected breakfast. 'Yes, it is rather a long letter,' he said absently. 'Was he badly hurt?' she asked, seeing that he did not seem as if he was going to say more. 'Hurt?' he repeated, as if he had almost forgotten the circumstance, and then, rousing himself, went on: 'Yes, he had a very narrow escape of his life. It seems a man crept up behind him as he was sitting on the wharf, with a bowie, which is a big clasp knife with a blade which fastens by a spring. Fortunately he heard the fellow just in time, and was in the act of rising when he struck him, and the blade fell just behind the shoulder and penetrated its full depth between the shoulder-blade and the ribs. He says he is getting round again nicely; his shoulder is still bandaged, and hurts him sharply at times, but he is going up the river in a steamboat, and will be two or three weeks on board, and he expects to be quite well by the time he lands; then he will be at the edge of what they call the plains.' Dorothy was silent for some time. 'Was he robbed, father?' 'Only a few dollars; he says he had fortunately emptied his pockets before leaving the hotel.' 'I suppose he is going to hunt out on the plains?' 'Yes, he is going to hunt, Dorothy.' 'What will he hunt, father?' 'I believe there are all sorts of game, dear--buffaloes and deer, and so on.' 'But there are Indians too, father, are there not? I have read about emigrant trains being attacked.' 'Yes, I suppose there are Indians,' Mr. Hawtrey replied vaguely. 'Can't I read the letter, father?' she asked timidly, after another long pause. 'No, I don't think so, my dear. No, it was written to Mr. Danvers, and it was to some extent a breach of confidence his forwarding it to me, but I suppose he thought I ought to see it.' Dorothy was silent again until her father had finished his breakfast. 'Don't you think I ought to see it too, father?' she repeated. 'Why shouldn't I? If there is anything about me in it, I think I have almost a right to read it. Why should I be kept in the dark? I don't see what there can be about me, but if there is, wouldn't it be fair that I should know it?' 'That is what I have been puzzling myself about, Dorothy, ever since I opened it. I think, myself, you have a right to know. The more so that you have been so hard and unjust on the poor fellow--but I promised him not to say anything about it.' 'But you did not promise him not to show me the letter,' Dorothy said quickly, with the usual feminine perspicacity in discovering a way out of a difficulty short of telling an absolute untruth.