"Yes, but he's expected back any moment, sir." "It will be all right," her father again assured Elizabeth, speaking with forced cheerfulness when they were alone. Ten--twenty minutes slipped by; minutes that were infinitely precious, then a step sounded in the hall. It was the servant who entered the room, however. He came to say that a message had that moment been received from the governor; he was detained at the capitol, and probably would not reach home before five o'clock. "Does he say he will see us there?" asked the general. "He didn't mention you, sir; perhaps he has forgotten, but I thought you'd wish to know." "Thank you." The general turned to his daughter. "I think we'd better go to the capitol." The carriage was still at the door and they hurried out to it and were whirled across town. As they came to a stand before the capitol, General Herbert, without waiting for Elizabeth, sprang out and strode into the building and up the familiar stairs to the executive chambers. The door of the outer office stood open. A colored janitor was sweeping the room. "Who you want, boss?" he asked, stopping his work and leaning on the handle of his broom. "The governor--where is he?" demanded the general. "You's too late, boss, he's done gone out." A sense of futility and defeat almost overwhelmed the old general. He was silent for a moment since he dared not trust himself to speak, then he asked: "Is the governor's secretary here?" The man shook his head. "Him and the governor left together. There ain't no one here now, they've done for the day." "Then the governor has gone home?" "I expect that's where he went, yes, sir." General Herbert swung about and hurried from the room. In the hall he met Elizabeth. "Did you see him?" she asked eagerly. "Not here," he answered huskily. Her eyes grew wide with terror, and she swayed as if about to fall, but her father put out a sunburnt hand for her support. "We must go back!" he said, mastering himself at sight of her suffering. "We have missed him here, he's gone home, that is all--it means nothing." They drove in silence through the streets. Pallid, fearful, and speechless in her suffering, Elizabeth leaned back in her seat. The hope that had sustained her was lost in the realization of defeat. There was nothing beyond; this was failure, complete and final; the very end of effort! Suddenly her father's big hand closed about the small one which rested in her lap. "You must not give up; I tell you it will be all right!" he insisted. "He is avoiding us!" she cried chokingly. "Oh, what can we do when he will not even see us!" "Yes, he will. We have been unfortunate, that is all." "Wretchedly unfortunate!" she moaned.