e her resolution. He would carry
her off _vi et armis_ if necessary.

The day of his graduation came. It was a proud as well as a sad day to
him. Sad because friendships of four years must be broken, in most cases
never to be renewed; and sadder yet because no word had come from Joyce.
She must know that he was now free, that of all things he would long to
come to her. Why should she longer be held by that promise to her father?
For the first time he felt bitterness in his heart.

Twilight, darkness came, still he sat in his apartments brooding. From
without came the shouts and laughter of students, happy in the thought of
going home; but their laughter found no echo in his heart. A step was
heard, and his cousin Fred came dashing into the room. "Why, Cal," he
exclaimed, "why sit here in the darkness, especially on this day of all
days? We are through, Cal, we are going back to Old Kentucky. Don't the
thought stir your blood?"

"Go away and leave me, Fred. I am desperate to-night. I want to be alone,"
replied Calhoun, half despondently, half angrily.

Fred whistled. "Look here, old fellow," he said, kindly, "this won't do.
It's time we met the folks down at the hotel. By the way, here is a
telegram for you. A messenger boy handed it to me, as I was coming up to
the room."

Calhoun took the yellow envelope languidly, while Fred lighted the gas;
but no sooner had he glanced at his telegram, than he gave a whoop that
would have done credit to a Comanche Indian.

"Fred, Fred!" he shouted, dancing around as if crazy, "when does the first
train leave for the west? Tell the folks I can't meet them."

"Well, I never--" began Fred, but Calhoun stopped him by shaking his
telegram in his face.

It read:

"Come.

"Joyce."

That was all, but it was enough to tell Calhoun that the long years of
waiting were over, that the little Puritan girl had been true to her
lover, true to her father, and won at last. The first train that steamed
out of Boston west bore Calhoun as a passenger, and an impatient passenger
he was.

How had it fared with Joyce during these years? If Calhoun had known all
that she suffered, all her heartaches, he would not have been so happy at
Harvard as he was. The fear of losing his daughter being gone, Mr.
Crawford, like Pharaoh, hardened his heart. He believed that in time Joyce
would forget, a pitiable mistake made by many fathers. A woman like Joyce,
who truly loves, never