His little campaign over, Horace Chase made his preparations for returning to Florida. These consisted in hastily throwing into a valise the few things which he had brought with him, and ringing the bell to have a carriage called so that he could catch the midnight train. As he was stepping into this carriage, a telegram was handed to him. "Hold on a minute," he called to the driver, as he opened it. "We are on our way to Savannah," he read. "You will find us at the Scriven House. Ruth not well." And the signature was "Dora Franklin." "Drive on," he called a second time, and as the carriage rolled towards the station he said to himself, "That Dolly! Always trying to make out that Ruth's sick. I guess it's only that she's tired of Florida. She wanted to leave when _I_ came north; asked me to take her." But when he reached Savannah, he found his wife if not ill, at least much altered; she was white and silent, she scarcely spoke; she sat hour after hour with her eyes on a book, though the pages were not turned. "She isn't well," Dolly explained again. "Then we must have in the doctors," Chase answered, decisively. "I'll get the best advice from New York immediately; I'll wire at once." "Don't; it would only bother her," objected Dolly. "They can do no more for her than we can, for it is nothing but lack of strength. Take her up to L'Hommedieu, and let her stay there all summer; that will be the best thing for her, by far." "That's the question; will it?" remarked Chase to himself, reflectively. "Do I know her, or do I not?" urged Dolly. "I have been with her ever since she was born. Trust me, at least where _she_ is concerned; for she is all I have left in the world, and I understand her every breath." "Of course I know you think no end of her," Chase answered. But he was not satisfied; he went to Ruth herself. "Ruthie, you needn't go to Newport this summer, if you're tired of it; you can go anywhere you like, short of Europe (for I can't quite get abroad this year). There are all sorts of first-rate places, I hear, along the coast of Maine." "I don't care where I go," Ruth answered, dully, "except that I want to be far away from--from the tiresome people we usually see." "Well, that means far away from Newport, doesn't it? We've been there for two summers," Chase answered, helping her (as he thought) to find out what she really wanted. "Would you like to go up the lakes--to Mackinac and Marquette?" "No, L'Hommedieu would do, perhaps." "Yes, Dolly's plan. Are you doing it for _her_?" "Oh," said Ruth, with weary truthfulness, "don't you know that I never do things for Dolly, but that it's always Dolly who does things for me?" Her husband took her to L'Hommedieu.