Glen leaned comfortably back, lighting a cigarette. His dead hopes had risen that day from their ashes, and, like beautiful, deceiving phantoms, had melted into air. His equilibrium, the fortitude it had cost him so much to gain, had been shaken to their foundations by the thought that his cherished dream might still materialize. He saw Thurston’s white, suffering face as he calmly said he would make the way of retreat very easy for Indiana. Well, he was worthy of her love. That was, at least, one solace. And he would win it in time. It was his right. With a sigh for his transient vision of happiness, the beautiful Fata Morgana which had charmed his eyes for such a brief space, Glen gathered all his moral forces to banish Indiana from his mind. His manhood was firmly building itself on the foundation of these accumulated efforts. Thurston, still sitting up in the library, vainly attempted to read. It seemed as though his life were falling about him in ruins. He was mortified, humiliated, and incensed at Indiana. If she had no love for him, she could, at least, have shown more respect for the sacred tie which bound them, and should have refrained from discussing their relations and publishing the fact of her unhappiness. Jennings crept in. He gave a sly glance at Thurston, who, with his head bent over his book, appeared to be reading. Then he opened the window softly and looked out. Hearing nothing, he closed it, but still waited, listening, in the shadow of the curtains. He felt it incumbent on him to share his master’s vigil. Although he would not presume to express an opinion to Thurston, he had a firm belief that his little mistress would come home that night. Jennings’ head swayed, and he dozed, his head against the window. Thurston, sitting with his head in his hands, was only dimly alive to his surroundings, his consciousness dulled, not by drowsiness, but a species of stupor. A knock sounded, very low and timid—then again, louder, more decided. Thurston started. Jennings, awakened suddenly, rubbed his eyes, wondering if he had heard aright. The knock was repeated, doubly and imperatively. Jennings hurried to the door, but Thurston, with a quick stride, brought his hand heavily down on the old man’s shoulder. "It’s her little leddyship, sir. It’s her—" The words died on his lips as he met his master’s determined gaze. "Draw those curtains," directed Thurston, in a low, set voice. Jennings obeyed. There was another knock. Thurston extinguished the lights. "She’s at the door!" cried Jennings, desperately. "I must let—I—" "I have said my doors will not be opened to-night—and I mean to keep my word. If you make one move to undo what I have done, in spite of the affection I have for you, I shall dismiss you on the spot."