“Assuredly,” Grail hastened to appease her. “That is, of course, the object to which everything else must be subservient. Trust me, Meredith. Take my word for it that your father is safe and sound, and will be with you by this time to-morrow night.” “Is that ‘orders’?” she asked, in playful allusion to an old joke between them, although her lip quivered as she tried to smile. “That’s ‘orders,’” assented Ormsby firmly, “and I want you to be enough of a soldier’s daughter to obey them. You are all broken up by this thing, and worn out by your trip, as well. What you’ve got to do now is to take some rest, and quit worrying. Come! I’ll take you over to Major Appleby’s house. I suppose you are stopping there?” “No,” she explained. “I am to be with Mrs. Schilder, I believe.” Grail looked up sharply, and seemed on the point of saying something, but reconsidered the impulse. “You don’t need to tell me to trust you, captain.” She extended her hand. “Indeed, if it were not for my reliance on you, I don’t know what I should do.” The adjutant, choking back words that rose tumultuously to his lips, escorted her to the door; then paused, with an involuntary exclamation, to stare at the group of officers gathered about Mrs. Schilder’s car, excitedly discussing an evening paper which one of them had just brought in. Its flaring black headlines were plainly discernible to Grail, and in a flash he read that his little Japanese friend and ally, Sasaku, had been murdered in the city. TO BE CONTINUED. “I CROW.” Many a “star” might well envy the most insignificant member of her troupe the supreme sense of importance and satisfaction with which he performs his little duty, be it only that of blowing out the candle through the hole in the scenery when the hero aims his deadly rifle at the flame and the cap explodes. Think of the pleasure his performance accorded this small boy, for instance: First Boy--“You ought to come to the concert our music teacher is goin’ to give.” Second Boy--“You goin’ to be in?” “Yes. I am one of the primmer donnas. We are goin’ to give a cantata.” “Wot’s that?” “Oh, it’s all about sunshine and storms and picnics and all sorts of country things. It’s great.” “Do you sing all that?” “N-o. I’m only in the first scene: ‘Early mornin’ on the farm.’” “What do you do?” “I crow.” THE WRONG PASSENGER. One may, perhaps, presume so far upon old acquaintanceship as to indulge occasionally in a mild, practical joke, but to attempt familiarity with strangers is “another kind of game.” A city street arab was wont to play rather roughly with a good-natured bulldog, owned by a shopkeeper of the neighborhood. One day the boy was walking with a friend when he saw the dog approaching. “Hi! there’s Towse!” he cried. “Now see me scare him!”