“I suggested it, but Oakley wouldn't hear to it. But don't worry about the town. It's gone wild. You should have seen the crowd on the platform when it saw Oakley in the engine-cab. It went stark mad.” Again Constance's eyes swam with tears. The strike, the murder of Ryder, the fire, had each seemed in turn a part of the tragedy of her life at Antioch, but Oakley's return was wholly glorious. Her father added, “I shall see Oakley in the morning, and learn if we can be of any service to him.” A little later, when Constance went to her own room, she drew forward a chair and seated herself by the window. Across the town, on the edge of the “flats,” she saw dimly the long, dark outline of the railroad shop, with its single tall chimney. She thought of Oakley as alone there keeping watch at the side of the grim old murderer, who had so splendidly redeemed himself by this last sacrifice. Great clouds of black smoke were still rolling over the town, and the woods were still blazing fiercely in the distance. Beyond her window she heard the call of frightened birds, as they fluttered to and fro in the dull red light, and farther off, in the North End, the muffled throbbing of the fire-engines. If she had had any doubts as to her feeling for Oakley, these doubts were now a thing of the past. She knew that she loved him. She had been petty and vain; she had put the small things of life against the great, and this was her punishment. She tried to comfort herself with the thought that she should see him in the morning; then she could tell him all. But what could she tell him? The time had gone by when she could tell him anything. It was almost morning when she undressed and threw herself down on her bed. She was disconsolate and miserable, and the future seemed quite barren of hope or happiness. Love had come to her, and she had not known its presence. Yes, she would tell Oakley that she had been little and narrow and utterly unworthy. He had cared for her, and perhaps he would understand. She fell asleep thinking this, and did not waken until her mother called her for breakfast. “I am waiting for your father. He has gone down to see Mr. Oakley,” Mrs. Emory said when she entered the dining-room. Constance glanced at the table. “Is he going to bring Mr. Oakley back with him?” she asked, nervously. “He expected to. I declare, Constance, you look worn out. Didn't you sleep well?” “No, not very. I wonder if they are coming?” “You might go look,” said her mother, and Constance hurried into the parlor. She was just in time to see her father enter the gate. He was alone. Constance flew to the front door and threw it open. “He wouldn't come?” she cried, breathlessly. “He's gone.” “Gone?” “Yes, a train was made up early this morning, and he has returned to Buckhorn--Why, what's the matter, Constance?” For Constance, with a little gasp of dismay, had slipped down into a chair, with her hands before her face.