“Went straight after her; found her dancing in Philadelphia, with paint on her cheeks, trinkets on her neck and arms, looking prettier than ever; but the innocent eyes were gone, and I couldn’t see my little girl in the bold, handsome woman twirling there before the footlights. She saw me, looked scared at first, then smiled, and danced on with her eyes upon me, as if she said,— “‘See! I’m happy now; go away and let me be.’ “I couldn’t stand that, and got out somehow. People thought me mad, or drunk; I didn’t care, I only wanted to see her once in quiet and try to get her home. I couldn’t do it then nor afterwards by fair means, and I wouldn’t try force. I wrote to her, promised to forgive her, begged her to come back, or let me keep her honestly somewhere away from me. But she never answered, never came, and I have never tried again.” “She wasn’t worthy of you, Thorn; you jest forgit her.” “I wish I could! I wish I could!” In his voice quivered an almost passionate regret, and a great sob heaved his chest, as he turned his face away to hide the love and longing, still so tender and so strong. “Don’t say that, Dick; such fidelity should make us charitable for its own sake. There is always time for penitence, always certainty of pardon. Take heart, Thorn, you may not wait in vain, and she may yet return to you.” “I know she will! I’ve dreamed of it, I’ve prayed for it; every battle I come out of safe makes me surer that I was kept for that, and when I’ve borne enough to atone for my part of the fault, I’ll be repaid for all my patience, all my pain, by finding her again. She knows how well I love her still, and if there comes a time when she is sick and poor and all alone again, then she’ll remember her old John, then she’ll come home and let me take her in.” Hope shone in Thorn’s melancholy eyes, and long-suffering, all-forgiving love beautified the rough, brown face, as he folded his arms and bent his gray head on his breast, as if the wanderer were already come. The emotion which Dick scorned to show on his own account was freely manifested for another, as he sniffed audibly, and, boy-like, drew his sleeve across his eyes. But Phil, with the delicate perception of a finer nature, felt that the truest kindness he could show his friend was to distract his thoughts from himself, to spare him any comments, and lessen the embarrassment which would surely follow such unwonted confidence. “Now I’ll relieve Flint, and he will give you a laugh. Come on, Hiram, and tell us about your Bewlah.” The gentleman addressed had performed his duty by sitting on a fence and “righting up” his pockets, to beguile the tedium of his exile. Before his multitudinous possessions could be restored to their native sphere, Thorn was himself again, and on his feet.