Twilight, darkness came, still he sat in his apartments brooding. From without came the shouts and laughter of students, happy in the thought of going home; but their laughter found no echo in his heart. A step was heard, and his cousin Fred came dashing into the room. “Why, Cal,” he exclaimed, “why sit here in the darkness, especially on this day of all days? We are through, Cal, we are going back to Old Kentucky. Don’t the thought stir your blood?” “Go away and leave me, Fred. I am desperate to-night. I want to be alone,” replied Calhoun, half despondently, half angrily. Fred whistled. “Look here, old fellow,” he said, kindly, “this won’t do. It’s time we met the folks down at the hotel. By the way, here is a telegram for you. A messenger boy handed it to me, as I was coming up to the room.” Calhoun took the yellow envelope languidly, while Fred lighted the gas; but no sooner had he glanced at his telegram, than he gave a whoop that would have done credit to a Comanche Indian. “Fred, Fred!” he shouted, dancing around as if crazy, “when does the first train leave for the west? Tell the folks I can’t meet them.” “Well, I never—” began Fred, but Calhoun stopped him by shaking his telegram in his face. It read: “Come. “Joyce.” That was all, but it was enough to tell Calhoun that the long years of waiting were over, that the little Puritan girl had been true to her lover, true to her father, and won at last. The first train that steamed out of Boston west bore Calhoun as a passenger, and an impatient passenger he was. How had it fared with Joyce during these years? If Calhoun had known all that she suffered, all her heartaches, he would not have been so happy at Harvard as he was. The fear of losing his daughter being gone, Mr. Crawford, like Pharaoh, hardened his heart. He believed that in time Joyce would forget, a pitiable mistake made by many fathers. A woman like Joyce, who truly loves, never forgets. It is said that men do, but this I doubt. The troublesome days of Reconstruction came on, and Mr. Crawford felt more aggrieved than ever toward the South. He believed that the facts bore out his views, that the North had been too lenient. As for Joyce, she gave little thought to politics. She believed that her father would surely relent before Calhoun had finished his college course; but as the time for his graduation approached, and her father was still obdurate, her courage failed. Her step grew languid, her cheeks lost their roses, the music of her voice in song was no longer heard. Strange that her father did not notice it, but there was one who did. That was her brother Mark. He was now a major in the Regular Army, had been wounded in a fight with the Apaches, and was home on leave of absence. To him Joyce confided all her sorrows, and found a ready sympathizer, for he was as tender of heart as he was brave.