"Ah, I thought so. I
knew I could never have been disgraced like this in earnest. They have
discovered the wrong done me?"

"No, no; not exactly that, Jack, but we shall show them the mistake, I
make no doubt."

"Why am I dishonored? Of what am I accused? Why am I here?" Jack cried,
shivering under the revulsion from despair to hope, and from hope back
to horror.

"You are dishonored, my poor young friend, because a court-martial has
found you guilty of murder, desertion, and treason against the articles
of war, and you are here because you are sentenced to be shot one week
from Friday, in the center of a hollow square, seated on your
own coffin."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

FATHER ABRAHAM'S JOKE.

In her own mind, as the train rolled toward Acredale from Washington,
Kate was enjoying in anticipation the victory she had to announce to her
father. He had written her regularly from Warchester, where he was
engaged in an important suit. She had written more frequently than he,
but she had made no allusion to the happy ending of her troubles. It was
partly dread that the knowledge of Jack's restoration might bring on
more active hostility, as well as a whimsical feminine caprice to spring
the great event upon him when all danger was over. She watched Dick and
Rosa in the seat near her, for they, too, were of the advance guard to
Acredale, where, when Olympia had arranged the house, Vincent and Jack
were to come for final restoration to health. When the party arrived at
the little Acredale Station there was a great crowd gathered.

A company of the Caribees was just setting out for the front. Some of
the old members recognized Dick, and then straightway went up a cheer
that brought all the corner loiterers to the spot to learn the goings
on. It was in consequence rather a triumphal procession that followed
the carriage to the Sprague gateway, and even followed up the sanded
road to the broad piazza. Rosa remained with Olympia, while Kate carried
Dick off to commit him to the aunts waiting on the porch to welcome the
prodigal. Kate had telegraphed her coming, and her father was at the
door to meet her. He was plainly relieved and delighted to have her with
him again, for he held her long and close in his arms. "Then all's
forgiven; we're friends again," she said, laughing and crying together.

"There is nothing to forgive. It may be a matter of regret that you are
a Boone in blood rather than an Ovid, and that you im