“I have always wondered what Kenneth _does_ believe,” Sylvester said, with his first smile. “He certainly is an interesting man; and he's rich, and growing more so.” “Yes; he was well provided for at the start,” responded Dearing, “and he has invested wisely.” “I have seen him talking to Margaret several times of late,” Sylvester remarked. “That is one thing that irritates me. I don't care a red cent about his cranky religious views; they will take care of themselves, for he is a straight, safe, and honorable man; and if this harum-scarum Fred Walton had not been taking up so much of her time, why--” “You old match-maker!” Dearing laughed. “I'm going to stir up Aunt Diana and get something to eat. I am as hungry as a bear.” While he and his uncle sat together at the long table in the big dining-room, Dearing asked the cook if she had notified his sister that supper was served. “Yesser, Marse Wynn,” the woman answered over the coffee-tray she was putting down, “I sent Lindy up dar to her room, and she say young miss didn't want er bite. I reckon she sho' is sick. She haint tetch er mouthful since 'er breakfast.” “Well, let her alone,” Dearing said, as his eyes met the wavering glance of his uncle across the table. “She will be all right in the morning.” The gloomy meal over, the General strode back to the veranda, and Wynn went up to his room. He did not light the gas, as he intended doing, for it occurred to him that there was really no need for it, and he sat down in the darkness. He could see one of the windows of Margaret's room in the ell of the building, across the open court. A dim light was burning there, and the curtains were drawn. “Poor child!” he muttered; “that fellow has hit her hard. Women have a wonderful amount of sympathy for him. It may be that Mrs. Barry is correct in her fears, and that Dora may be in love with him, too. Beautiful, trusting Dora--even _she_ is suffering on his account. Yes, I must see him. There is no other way.” Dearing stood up and went to his bureau to get a fresh handkerchief, and while his hand was fumbling collars, cuffs, and neckties, it touched the cool, smooth handle of a revolver. He picked it up and held it for a moment reflectively, and then laid it down. “No, I'll not go to see him even with the thought that I may have to use force,” he said. “My mission in life is to _cure_ men, not to spill their blood. They say he sometimes goes armed, and if we met on that sort of level there might be trouble.”