The dull monotony of those fall days in Antioch was never forgotten by Constance Emory. She was listless and restless by turns. She had hoped that she might hear from Oakley. She even thought the Joyces might bring her some message, but none had come. Dan had taken her at her word. She had made no friends, and, with Ryder dead and Oakley gone, she saw. no one, and finally settled down into an apathy that alarmed the doctor. He, after some deliberation, suddenly announced his intention of going East to attend a medical convention. “Shall you see Mr. Oakley?” Constance asked, with quick interest. “Probably, if he's in New York when I get there.” Constance gave him a scared look and dropped her eyes. But when the time drew near for his departure, she followed him about as if there were something on her mind which she wished to tell him. The day he started, she found courage to ask, “Won't you take me with you, papa?” “Not this time, dear,” he answered. She was quiet for a moment, and then said: “Papa, you are not going to tell him?” “Tell who, Constance? What?” “Mr. Oakley.” “What about Oakley, dear?” She looked at him from under her long lashes while the color slowly mounted to her cheeks. “You are not going to tell him what you think you know?” The doctor smiled. “I wish you would grant me the possession of ordinary sense, Constance. I am not quite a fool.” “You are a precious,” she said, kissing him. “Thank you. What message shall I give Oakley for you?” “None.” “None?” “He won't want to hear from me,” shyly. “Why not?” “Because he just won't, papa. Besides, I expect he has forgotten that such a person ever lived.” “I wouldn't be too sure of that. What was the trouble, Constance? You'd better tell me, or I may say something I shouldn't.” “Oh, you must not say anything,” in alarm. “You must promise.” “Constance, what did Oakley say to you that last day he was here at the house?” Constance's glance wandered meditatively from her father's face to the window and back again, while her color came and went. There was a faraway, wistful look in her eyes, and a sad little smile on her lips. At last she said, softly, “Oh, he said a number of things. I can't remember now all he did say. “Did Oakley tell you he cared for you?” Constance hesitated a moment, then, reluctantly: “Well, yes, he did. And I let him go, thinking I didn't care for him,” miserably, and with a pathetic droop of her lips, from which the smile had fled. “I didn't know, and I have been so unhappy!” “Oh!” Constance left the room abruptly. When he reached New York, the first thing the doctor did was to look up Oakley. He was quick to notice a certain constraint in the young man's manner as they shook hands, but this soon passed off. “I am awfully glad to see you,” he had said. “I have thought of you again and again, and I have been on the point of writing you a score of times. I haven't forgotten your kindness to me.”