He sang an old lyric entitled _The Man of Scars_, pointing at Pearl and me as he roared along, and, really, it took all the shame out of me which had come of my injured looks. I sat down by her, and we had a little talk of “old times,” as we called them. Some one spoke of Bony. “By the blood of the martyrs,” said Colonel Busby, “he hasn't a scar on his body, and never will have unless he meets with an accident!” “Which he has done,” said the Pearl of great price, as he smiled at McCarthy. “I think we'd better go,” said the gentleman. “I'm afraid that our dear friend on the bed there is growing weary.” We shook his hand and bade him good-night, and then McCarthy and I walked to the inn with Jo and the Colonel. They were to start for Merrifield at six o'clock in the morning. “You should see our shop before you leave here,” I said. “You take my father to see the shop, and I'll try to entertain Mr. McCarthy while you're gone,” she suggested. The Colonel and I went together to the shop, then running night and day. We tramped through its long, busy floors, and by-and-by sat down, with our cigars, in the office. “My friend,” said the Colonel, presently, “I should be proud to have you visit me at Merrifield.” “That cannot be,” I said, “until I have your permission to propose to Jo.” “Heron, I've been a fool,” he said. “I hate to confess, but I can't help it, and then it doesn't matter much, for the fact is generally known. Forgive me, sir, and, believe me, I should be proud to have you for a son-in-law.” We returned to the inn. “Mr. McCarthy has been telling me about his stables,” said Jo to her father. “Perhaps he would be kind enough to show them to you.” “Glad to take you there,” said the gentleman, as he went away with the Colonel. “Did he invite you to Merrifield?” Jo asked. “Yes, and more. He has consented--” “Merrifield is delightful,” she interrupted. “We live in the old house that was built by my grandfather. I've always said that if I ever had the luck to be engaged and married, I'd like it all to happen there.” I took her hand and said: “Look here, young lady, I've made up my mind that I shall turn the key in that door and keep you a prisoner until you've promised to marry me. You've established a sort of precedent in your treatment of poor Sam--don't you remember it?” “Dear old Sam!” she exclaimed. “I couldn't have forgotten you if I had tried. He was forever talking about you, and to every letter he added a postscript, which contained the last news of C. H. He's watched your career very closely.” I sat down by her side, and drew her close to me. “I really cannot wait,” I said. “Nor I,” she whispered; and then I felt her soul in her lips, and I need say no more of that day, best of these many of which I have tried to tell you, save this: Jo sad her father promised to delay their home-going to meet my mother and sister, who would be with us in the morning. CHAPTER XII.--THE STORY OF AN UNSUSPECTED HERO