Penelope had a mania for carrying peanuts to the Park to give to the animals. She took several from her reticule and tossed them towards the gray squirrels. The one, with a little whistling noise scampered up the nearest tree and the other, taking a nut in his little mouth, quickly followed. “I have not seen her move since we came here,” she said, returning to the subject of the girl. “Do you suppose she put her hat over her eyes in that manner to keep the light out of them, or was it done to keep any passers-by from staring at her?” “I don’t know,” carelessly. “Probably she is ill.” “Ill? Do you think so, Dick? I am going to speak to her,” declared Penelope, impulsively. “Don’t, I wouldn’t,” urged Dick. “But I will,” declared Penelope. “You don’t know anything about her,” he continued pleadingly. “She may have been out all night, or you can’t tell but perhaps she has been drinking too much, and if you wake her she will doubtless make it unpleasant for you.” “How uncharitable you are,” indignantly exclaimed Penelope, who feared no one. She had spent much time and money in doing deeds of charity, and she had met all sorts and conditions of women. That a woman was in trouble and she could help her, was all Penelope cared to know. She got up and walked towards the girl. Richard, knowing all argument was useless, went with her. When they stopped, Penelope, bending down, peeped beneath the brim of the lace hat which, laden with an abundance of red roses, was tilted over the motionless girl’s face. “She is sleeping,” she whispered softly to Dick. “Her eyes are closed. She has a lovely face.” “Has she, indeed?” and Dick, with increased interest, bent to look. “She is very pale and--I am afraid that she is ill,” in an awed tone. “Young lady!” he called nervously. The girlish figure never moved. Richard’s and Penelope’s eyes met with a swift expression--a mingled look of surprise and fear. “My dear!” called Penelope, gently shaking the girl by the shoulder. The lace hat tumbled off and lay at their feet; the little hands, which had been folded loosely in her lap, fell apart and the girlish figure fell lengthwise on the bench. Breathlessly and silently the frightened young couple looked at the beautiful upturned face framed in masses of golden hair; the blue-rimmed eyes, with their curly dark lashes resting gently against the colorless skin; the parted lips in which there lingered a bit of red. Nervously Richard touched the cheek of pallor, and felt for the heart and pulse. “What’s wrong there?” called a gray-uniformed officer, who had left his horse near the edge of the walk. Penelope silently looked at Richard, waiting for him to answer, and as he raised his face all white and horror-stricken, he gasped: “My God! The girl is dead.” CHAPTER II. PENELOPE SETS A HARD TASK FOR DICK. Richard Treadwell was not mistaken. The golden-haired girl was dead.