sideration.

Colonel Dundas had been genuinely fond of Dick Swinton--up to a point.
The kind of regard he had for him was that which is accorded to many
self-indulgent, reckless young men who are their own greatest enemies. He
was always pleased to see him; but he would never have experienced
pleasure in contemplating him as a possible son-in-law. His
supposititiously heroic death had surrounded him with a halo of romance
dear to the colonel's heart; but his sudden reappearance in the land of
the living, with a warrant out for his arrest, and Dora's happiness in
the balance, excited a growing anger.

All the way to Boston, the colonel fumed and swore. He muttered to
himself and thumped the arms of his chair, rehearsing the things he meant
to say when the rascal confronted him. How dare Dick send telegrams to
his innocent child without her father's knowledge, in order that he might
work upon her feelings! Perhaps, he thought of persuading her to elope
with him--elope with a criminal! By the time he reached Boston, the
colonel had built up a hundred imaginary wrongs that it was his duty to
set right by plain speaking.

As he entered the vestibule of the hotel, he saw Dick Swinton--or someone
like him--wrapped in a long, ill-fitting coat, walking up and down very
slowly. The young man caught sight of the ruddy face of Colonel Dundas,
and he tried to hurry, but his step was slow and uncertain. As they came
near each other, he seized the colonel's arm.

"Colonel! Colonel!" he cried. "How glad I am to see you! Is Dora with
you?"

"Dora--no, sir! What do you take me for? Good God! what a wreck you are!
Where have you been? How is it you've come home?"

"I--I thought she would come!" gasped Dick, who looked very white. His
eyes were unnaturally large, and his cheeks sunken, and his hands merely
bones.

"Here, come out of the crowd," said the colonel, forgetting his
tremendous speeches. He seized the young man by the arm, but gripped
nothing like muscle. "Why, you're a skeleton, boy!" he exclaimed,
adopting the old attitude in spite of himself.

"Yes, I'm not up to the mark," laughed Dick. "I thought you knew all
about it."

"Knew all about it, man? You're dead--dead! Everyone, your father and
mother and all of us, read the full story of your death in the papers."

"Yes; but I corrected all that," cried Dick, "My letters--they got my
letters?"

"What letters?"

"The two I sent through by the men that were exchang