“What is it, dear?” he questioned, anxiously. But she gave him no answer. She was crying softly, unrestrainedly. It was all over. Oakley was gone, and with him went her only hope of happiness. Yet more keen than her sense of pain and personal loss was her regret that he would never understand that she respected and admired him as he deserved. “I am sorry, Constance, but I didn't know that you especially wanted to see him,” said the doctor, awkwardly, but with a dawning comprehension of what it all meant. She made no answer. “What is it, dear?” he repeated. “Oh, nothing. I wanted to tell him about something; that is all. It doesn't matter now.” She glanced up into his face with a sudden doubt. “You didn't see him--you are quite sure he went away without your seeing him--you are not deceiving me?” “Why, of course, Constance, but he'll come back.” “No, he won't, papa,” shaking her head sadly. “He's gone, and he will never come back. I know him better than you do.” And then she fled promptly up-stairs to her own room. This was the nearest Constance came to betraying her love for Oakley. She was not much given to confidences, and the ideals that had sustained her in her pride now seemed so childish and unworthy that she had no wish to dwell upon them, but whenever Dan's name was mentioned in her presence she looked frightened and guilty and avoided meeting her father's glance. It seemed, indeed, that. Oakley had taken final leave of Antioch. A new manager appeared and took formal charge of the destinies of the road. Under his direction work was resumed in the shops, for the strike had died a natural death. None of the hands were disposed to question the ten-per-cent cut, and before the winter was over the scale of wages that had been in force before the strike was inaugurated was voluntarily restored. The town had no criticisms to make of Johnson, the new manager, a quiet, competent official; the most any one said was that he was not Oakley. That was enough. For Dan had come into his own. Early in October there was a flutter of excitement when Turner Joyce and his wife left for the East to be Oakley's guests. When they returned, some weeks later, they had a good deal to say about him that Antioch was frankly curious to hear. He had taken his father to Burton, where his mother was buried. Afterwards he had joined General Cornish in New York. While abroad, the financier had effected a combination of interests which grouped a number of roads under one management, and Dan had been made general superintendent of the consolidated lines, with his headquarters in New York City. The Joyces were but vaguely informed as to where these lines were, but they did full justice to their magnitude, as well as to the importance of Oakley's new connection.