At nine o’clock next day there came a telegram. Wilford had reached New York and would be in Silverton that afternoon, accompanied by Bell. At this last Marian Hazelton caught as an excuse for what she intended doing. She could not remain there after Wilford came, nor was it necessary. Her task was done, or would be when she had finished the wreath and cross of flowers she was making for the coffin. Laying them on baby’s pillow, Marian went in quest of Helen, to whom she explained that as Bell Cameron was coming, and the house would be full, she had decided upon going to West Silverton, as she wished to see the old lady with whom she once boarded, and who had been so kind to her. “I might stay,” she added, as Helen began to protest, “but you do not need me. I have done all I can, and would rather go where I can be quiet for a little.” To this last argument there could be no demur, and so the same carriage which at ten o’clock went for Wilford Cameron carried Marian Hazelton to the village where she preferred being left. * * * * * In much anxiety and distress Wilford Cameron read the telegram announcing baby’s illness. “At Silverton!” he said. “How can that be when the child was at New London?” and he glanced again at the words: “Your child is dying at Silverton. Come at once. M. GRANT” There could be no mistake, and Wilford’s face grew dark, for he guessed the truth, censuring Katy much, but censuring her family more. They of course had encouraged her in the plan of taking her child from New London, where it was doing so well, and this was the result. Wilford was proud of his daughter now, and during the few weeks he had been with it, the little thing had found a strong place in his love. Many times he had thought of it during his journey West, indulging in bright anticipations of the coming winter, when he would have it home again. It would not be in his way now. On the contrary, it would add much to his luxurious home, and the young father’s heart bounded with thoughts of the beautiful baby as he had last seen it, crowing its good-bye to him and trying to lisp his name, its sweet voice haunting him for weeks, and making him a softer, better man, who did not frown impatiently upon the little children in the cars, but who took notice of them all, even laying his hand once on a little curly head which reminded him of baby’s. Alas for him! he little dreamed of the great shock in store for him. The child was undoubtedly very sick, he said, but that it could die was not possible; and so, though he made ready to hasten to it, he did not withhold his opinion of the rashness which had brought it to such peril. “Had Katy obeyed _me_ it would not have happened,” he said, pacing up and down the parlor and preparing to say more, when Bell came to Katy’s aid, and lighting upon him, asked what he meant by blaming his wife so much.