HER absence had not been long and when she re-entered the familiar salon at the hotel she found her father and sister sitting there together as if they were timing her—a prey to curiosity and suspense. Mr. Dosson however gave no sign of impatience; he only looked at her in silence through the smoke of his cigar (he profaned the red satin splendour with perpetual fumes as she burst into the room. No other word than the one I use expresses the tell-tale character of poor Francie's ingress. She rushed to one of the tables, flinging down her muff and gloves, and the next moment Delia, who had sprung up as she came in, had caught her in her arms and was glaring into her face with a “Francie Dosson—what have you been through?” Francie said nothing at first, only closing her eyes and letting her sister do what she would with her. “She has been crying, father— she has,” Delia went on, pulling her down upon a sofa and almost shaking her as she continued. “Will you please tell? I’ve been perfectly wild! Yes you have, you dreadful—!” the elder girl declared, kissing her on the eyes. They opened at this compassionate pressure and Francie rested them in their beautiful distress on her father, who had now risen to his feet and stood with his back to the fire.

“Why, daughter,” said Mr. Dosson, “you look as if you had had quite a worry.”

“I told you I should—I told you, I told you!” Francie broke out, with a trembling voice. “And now it's come!”

“You don't mean to say you’ve done anything?” cried Delia, very white.

“It's all over—it's all over!” Francie pursued, turning her eyes to her sister.

“Are you crazy, Francie?” this young lady asked. “I’m sure you look as if you were.”

“Ain't you going to be married, my child?” asked Mr. Dosson, benevolently, coming nearer to her.

Francie sprang up, releasing herself from her sister, and threw her arms around him. “Will you take me away, father—will you take me right away?”