“Ervin, my son, my son, would God I had died for thee!” “Is this Colonel Masters?” she inquired, trying to be brave, as his kindly blue eyes turned towards her. “It is, madam, your servant, Colonel Masters. Pray be seated.” “Colonel Masters, I came to ask if you could tell me where Mr. McArthur is. He is ill somewhere, and I am come to—to find him.” He looked at her as if he were reading a chapter in his own love story. “Is—he—ill?” he asked, slowly. “Yes, sir, he is. I am sure he is. I had hoped that you knew where!” “I was not aware that he was—ill.” “He must be—a messenger told me!” “Could he not tell you where?” “No, it was not a messenger that could speak.” Colonel Masters understood. Such messengers had spoken to him many times. “You loved him,” he said, simply. A scarlet glow crept over her cheeks. “I—yes. When did you see him last?” “When I saw him last he was well, I am sure he was well.” “How long ago, sir, when—” “May I be pardoned for asking the name of my pretty inquisitor?” “It is Helen Preston. I am from Dunvegan.” “He loved a Helen.” Again the scarlet flush came. The colonel noticed her eyes light for the first time. “I must go, sir. Can you not tell me where to find him?” “Yes, I know where you will find him,” he said, smiling tenderly. “Heaven will not be far from where you find him.” Helen returned his smile trustingly. “Perhaps Mrs. Adams, his landlady, has heard something of him. I will send Joe to her house,” Colonel Masters continued, looking, not at the girl, but at the flag he held in his hand. Helen insisted on accompanying Joe, for her impatience could not brook delay in her loving search. * * * * * Mrs. Adams herself came to the door when Helen rang the bell, and was stupefied with amazement at the first question: “Is Mr. McArthur in?” “Mr. McArthur, madam? Has he risen—has he come back?” “He is ill somewhere—is it not here?” Her heart sank, for she knew already the answer. “He—isn’t he dead?” “Dead!” The girl from the far hills fainted on the doorstep. Mrs. Adams bore her quietly to the settee and stood over her till she opened her eyes again. “Did you—did he die here?” “No, miss, now do be quiet. Maybe he ain’t dead at all,” the good woman said, soothingly. “But the pigeon—did he—not loose the pigeon last week?” At the mention of the pigeon, Mrs. Adams started. Could the girl, whose accent betrayed her highland blood, know that she had freed the dragoon? It was an accident that he had escaped, and he had disappeared instantly, only circling once over the house. “To be sure, Miss, did he loose the pigeon?” “Yes, a white one—a big dragoon.” “Well, now I wonder!” Then a happy thought came to her. “If he’s sick, Miss, he must be at the hospital.” Helen rose, half dazed. “It is very, very strange,” she said. “Nobody seems to know where he is, yet you know—you must know. May I go to his room?”