“I have been wondering what he could have done,” General Sylvester said, musingly. “I dropped in on his father the other day for no other reason than that he might let out some hint of the situation, but he never said a word. A big change has certainly come over him. His face was haggard and almost bloodless, and his eyes had a queer, shifting look. I am sure he knows all about the affair, whatever it is.” “Yes; Fred said the old man knew, and would tell it, but it seems he has not,” Dearing answered. “Ashamed to let it be known, I guess,” Sylvester said. Margaret and Galt had parted, the carriage was disappearing down the street, and the girl was slowly strolling back. At a bed of flowers about ten yards from them she paused and stood looking down. Just then a loud, strident voice reached them from the side of the house. It was from Mrs. Chumley, who had brought the General's laundry home, and with her great empty basket was making her way across the grass toward the front gate, accompanied by old Diana, the colored cook. “Oh, but I know it _is_ true--every word of it!” The white woman had raised her voice exultantly. “I was right there at the girl's elbow, and heard Mrs. Barry accuse her of it. Dora admitted her ruin, and laid it to Fred Walton. Now, I reckon folks will know why he had to skip out by the light o' the moon without a bit of baggage.” Instantly the two men were on their feet, Margaret's protection foremost in their minds. There was no doubt that she had heard, for she was standing facing the two women like a figure carved from stone. “Excuse me, Miss Margaret, I didn't know you was there,” Mrs. Chumley said, as she walked on; “but it is the truth--the Lord knows it is the truth.” “My God, the brutality of it!” the old man ejaculated. “To think it should come to her like that!” “The scoundrel!” Dearing cried. “Now I understand fully, and if I had known the truth, I'd have--” But he went no further, for Margaret was slowly coming toward them. The grass she trod was wet with dew, and ordinarily she would have realized it, and lifted her skirt, but she now moved toward them like a somnambulist. At the bottom step her foot caught, and as they both sprang to her assistance she gave a forced, harsh laugh. “How awkward I--I am!” she stammered. “I could never da--dance the minuet with you now, Uncle Tom. I gave Mr. Galt a pretty bud. He is _such_ a flatterer--saying that I--saying that he--” She suddenly pressed her hand to her head and reeled helplessly. The strong arm of her brother went round her, and her head sank upon his shoulder. His face was wrung and dark with blended fury and anxiety, his strong lip was quivering. “No, she is not fainting!” He spoke to his uncle, but for her ears, with the intention of rousing her. “She is all right. Wake up, Madge! I'll slap your jaws, old girl, if you play 'possum with me. You may fool _some_ folks, but not your family doctor.”