n the bills she looks well. Thar is
a poster," said Mr. McClosky glancing at Ashe, and opening his
valise,--"thar is a poster givin' her performance at Marysville next
month." Mr. McClosky slowly unfolded a large yellow-and-blue printed
poster, profusely illustrated. "She calls herself 'Mams'elle J.
Miglawski, the great Russian Trapeziste.'"

John Ashe tore it from his hand. "Of course," he said, suddenly facing
Mr. McClosky, "you don't expect me to go on with this?"

Mr. McClosky took up the poster, carefully refolded it, and returned
it to his valise. "When you break off with Jinny," he said quietly,
"I don't want any thing said 'bout this. She doesn't know it. She's a
woman, and I reckon you're a white man."

"But what am I to say? How am I to go back of my word?"

"Write her a note. Say something hez come to your knowledge (don't say
what) that makes you break it off. You needn't be afeard Jinny'll ever
ask you what."

John Ashe hesitated. He felt he had been cruelly wronged. No gentleman,
no Ashe, could go on further in this affair. It was preposterous to
think of it. But somehow he felt at the moment very unlike a gentleman,
or an Ashe, and was quite sure he should break down under Jenny's steady
eyes. But then--he could write to her.

"So ores is about as light here as on the Ridge. Well, I reckon they'll
come up before the rains. Good-night." Mr. McClosky took the hand that
his host mechanically extended, shook it gravely, and was gone.

When Mr. McClosky, a week later, stepped again upon his own veranda, he
saw through the French window the figure of a man in his parlor. Under
his hospitable roof, the sight was not unusual; but, for an instant, a
subtle sense of disappointment thrilled him. When he saw it was not the
face of Ashe turned toward him, he was relieved; but when he saw the
tawny beard, and quick, passionate eyes of Henry Rance, he felt a new
sense of apprehension, so that he fell to rubbing his beard almost upon
his very threshold.

Jenny ran into the hall, and seized her father with a little cry of joy.
"Father," said Jenny in a hurried whisper, "don't mind HIM," indicating
Rance with a toss of her yellow braids: "he's going soon. And I think,
father, I've done him wrong. But it's all over with John and me now.
Read that note, and see how he's insulted me." Her lip quivered; but she
went on, "It's Ridgeway that he means, father; and I believe it was HIS
hand struck Ridgeway down, or that