“But he might have asked me for an explanation,” she murmured half aloud. That was the thought that hurt her most. All three had condemned her without giving her an opportunity to defend herself. What Lee Hendon might think she did not care in the slightest. So far as he was concerned, her task had been performed for Hal’s sake alone and there her interest in the matter ceased. April she could forgive, understanding how her cousin, drawn between her love for her country and the affection for the man who wore the uniform of its enemies, had been so distraught that she scarcely knew what she was saying. But none of these excuses would serve to justify Val Tracy’s attitude toward her. She was angry with him, feeling that he had not been fair, that he had been too ready to jump to conclusions and condemn her without a word. Slowly she made her way to the May home, pondering in her mind what was ahead of her. It seemed no longer endurable for her to remain with her aunt, while the increased difficulties of travel made it well-nigh impossible to go North. And even there she would not find a home. Her father was in England and her last letter from him gave no hint that he could come to America again in the immediate future. It would take a long time to communicate with him, and she felt it would be intolerable to stay in Washington while her cousin looked upon her as an enemy. Then she remembered Miss Imogene with a feeling of relief. That dainty little lady would find some solution of her difficulties, she felt sure, and would, if necessary, go away with her until her father made arrangements for her to join him. As she walked up the drive to the house Harriot came running down to meet her. “Where have you been?” was the first question, and then without pausing for a reply, “Val Tracy has gone! Went off and hardly said good-by—and April’s up in her room with the door locked. What do you think is the matter?” Evidently Harriot had seen enough to excite her curiosity, but as yet she did not connect Dorothea with the disturbance in any way. “I suppose Captain Tracy has had orders,” Dorothea answered evasively. “I don’t think so,” Harriot confided in an undertone. “I think he and April have had a tiff; and that’s funny, too; because of course I believed she was in love with Lee Hendon. Didn’t you?” “Yes, indeed,” Dorothea replied enthusiastically, glad of one question she need not evade. “Well, you can’t tell,” Harriot went on judicially. “When they get in love there’s no counting on what they’ll do, no matter who it is they’re in love with.” She chattered on, enlarging on her views of that fatal malady, love, quite unmindful of the fact that Dorothea added little to the conversation. She was aware of a certain satisfaction in the fact that Harriot was wrong in her surmises. She knew that April was not in love with Val Tracy, but this did not by any means insure that Val was as indifferent to April.