“What the plague is that for—has mother been raising a row?” asked John Jr., and ’Lena replied, “No, no, your mother has nothing to do with it. I only want Vesta taken home. I cannot at present tell you why, but I have a good reason, and some time, perhaps, I’ll explain. You’ll do it, won’t you?” With the determination of questioning Durward as to what had happened, John Jr. promised, and when Mrs. Graham and her son returned from Louisville, they found Vesta safely stabled with their other horses, while the saddle with its tiny slipper hung upon a beam, and seemingly looked down with reproach upon Durward, who turned away with a bitter pang as he thought of the morning when he first took it to Maple Grove. The next day was dark and rainy, precluding all outdoor exercise, and weary, sad, and spiritless, Durward repaired to the library, where, for an hour or more, he sat musing dreamily of the past—of the morning, years ago, when first he met the little girl who had since grown so strongly into his love, and over whom so dark a shadow had fallen. A heavy knock at the door, and in a moment John Jr. appeared, with dripping garments and a slightly scowling face. There was a faint resemblance between him and ’Lena, manifest in the soft, curling hair and dark, lustrous eyes. Durward had observed it before—he thought of it now—and glad to see any one who bore the least resemblance to her, he started up, exclaiming, “Why, Livingstone, the very one of all the world I am glad to see.” John made no reply, but shaking the rain-drops from his overcoat, which he carelessly threw upon the floor, he took a chair opposite the grate, and looking Durward fully in the face, said, “I’ve come over, Bellmont, to ask you a few plain, unvarnished questions, which I believe you will answer truthfully. Am I right?” “Certainly, sir—go on,” was Durward’s reply. “Well, then, to begin, are you and ’Lena engaged?” “No, sir.” “Have you been engaged?” “No, sir.” “Do you ever expect to be engaged?” “No, sir.” “Have you quarreled?” “No, sir.” “Do you know why she wished to have Vesta sent home?” “I suppose I do.” “Will you tell me?” “No, sir,” said Durward, determined, for ’Lena’s sake, that no one should wring from him the secret. John Jr. arose, jammed both hands into his pockets—walked to the window—made faces at the weather—walked back to the grate—made faces at that—kicked it—and then turning to Durward, said, “There’s the old Nick to pay, somewhere.” Nothing from Durward, who only felt bound to answer direct questions. “I tell you, there’s the old Nick to pay, somewhere,” continued John, raising his voice. “I knew it all the while ’Lena was sick. I read it in her face when I told her Mr. Graham had gone south——” A faint sickness gathered around Durward’s heart, and John Jr. proceeded: “She wouldn’t tell me, and I’ve come to you for information. Will you give it to me?”