“Back to the loneliness of my own room I went. As I felt my way along the dark hall I wished that I might die. Ah, if I could only have heard one kind word from him I would—well, I am sure that you would not have had this story for your book, but I suppose,” said the girl with a dreamy sigh, “that the foundation of your work is cemented together with the mortar made from mistakes.” “Yes, I quite agree with you, that if there were no sorrow in this world this book never would have been written.” “Well, back to the story,” she said, with a toss of her head, as though she would have it done with. “Yes, go on.” “I returned to bed but not to sleep; I tossed about in frantic efforts to forget the burning wound I felt. When daylight came I arose and dressed myself without calling my maid. My eyes were so red and swollen that I could not go down to breakfast at the usual hour and when I did go I asked for my father. “‘Law sakes alive, honey, you fadah done lef de place mos’ an houah ago,’ said my old black mammy. “‘Did he leave any word for me?’ I asked. “‘No, Mis’ Abbie, he jes went and nevah said nothin’.’ “My heart fell within me. I had intended to try again to explain to him my resolutions of the day before. Later in the day I learned that my father had gone on a ten days’ trip. Oh, how desolate I felt, with no one but the colored servants about. I am not surprised now that I was easily persuaded to leave my home, and it came about in this way: On the evening of the day of my father’s departure, a man came to our house on business; he was not an entire stranger for he had been there many times before although I had seen but little of him. He was a noted horseman from California and his business, like my lover’s, was to purchase horses. He was received into our house and all the generous hospitality of a Kentucky home was extended to him, and I, being the only member of the family at home, took upon myself the duty of entertaining our guest. He was a man of fifty and his gray hairs added much to his polite dignity. He was a much traveled man and his stories of adventure were so thrilling and interesting that he quickly had me wrapped in attention. The evening being warm, we sat on the broad gallery (better known as a veranda in the North) and after asking my permission, he lit a cigar and as he leisurely puffed and blew out clouds of smoke, he explained to me how he had been all over the world, and where he lived. In doing so he painted such pictures of the beauties of nature that I lost interest in the little world that I had always known. A new desire was created within me and then a new thought came to me. I wondered if this kind old gentleman had any daughters of his own, and if he had I wanted to hear about them; that desire was followed with the thought that it would be nice if my father were like him. I finally asked him if he had a daughter, but he seemed reticent as to her. At last with a struggle born of desperation I asked