trode forth into the breeze and sunshine again, and no man
who met him knew that he had tempted his fate and lost. Something had
told him, days before, that Miss Forrest's words were prophetic,--Nellie
Bayard would prefer one nearer her own years.

It was to satisfy himself that Randall McLean was that enviable
somebody that he had sought this interview; and, though she had
admitted nothing and he had not questioned, he had read in her tears
and blushes a truth that only recently had she tremblingly admitted to
herself. Now he saw his way clearly to the end.

But to Bayard the abrupt close of the murmured interview meant a
possibility that filled him with double dismay. That one hope should be
dashed to earth this morning was an evil sufficient unto the day. That
it should be followed by the conviction that his daughter had utterly
declined to consider this wealthy and most estimable gentleman as a
suitor for her hand was a bitter, bitter disappointment; but that she
should have refused Roswell Holmes, with all his advantages, because of
Randall McLean--with what?--was more than he could bear.

Just as she was hurrying to her room, still weeping, he interposed.

"My little Nell!--my precious!" he cried, in tenderest tones, as he
folded her in his arms. "Is it so hopeless as this? Is it possible that
my little daughter's heart has been stolen away--right under my
eyes--and I never saw it?"

For an answer she only clung to him, hiding her bonny face, weeping the
more violently. Speak she could not.

"Nell! Nellie!" he pleaded, "try and tell me, dear. You don't know what
it means to me! You don't know what fears your silence causes me! My
child--tell me--that it isn't Mr. McLean."

No answer--only closer nestling; only added tears.

"Nell, my own little one! If you knew with what awful dread I waited!
If you knew what this meant to me--to you--to us all! Speak to me,
daughter. Tell me it isn't that unhappy young man."

And now, startled, shocked, she lifts her brimming eyes in wonderment
to her father's face, gazing at him through the mist of tears.

"Why unhappy?" she almost gasps. "Why--why not Mr. McLean, papa?"

For a moment Bayard stands as though stunned. Then slowly relaxes the
clasp of his arms and turns drearily away, covering his face with his
hands.

"My God!" he moans. "This is retribution, this is punishment! Blinder
than the veriest mole have I been through it all. Nellie!" he cries,
turning sud