ey are having the big
bazaar."

As the man spoke he looked askance for a moment at the occupant of his
cab, for Ogilvie was travel-stained and dusty. He looked like one in a
terrible hurry. There was an expression in his gray eyes which the
driver did not care to meet.

"Go as fast as you can," he said briefly, and then the man whipped up
his horse and proceeded over the dusty roads.

"A rum visitor," he thought; "wonder what he's coming for. Don't look
the sort that that fine young lady would put up with on a day like
this."

Ogilvie within the cab, however, saw nothing. He was only conscious of
the fact that he was drawing nearer and nearer to the house where his
little daughter--but did his little daughter still live? Was Sibyl
alive? That was the thought of all thoughts, the desire of all
desires, which must soon be answered yea or nay.

When the tired-out and stricken man heard the strains of the band, he
did rouse himself, however, and began dimly to wonder if, after all,
he had come to the wrong house. Were there two houses called
Silverbel, and had the man taken him to the wrong one? He pulled up
the cab to inquire.

"No, sir," replied the driver, "it's all right. There ain't but one
place named Silverbel here, and this is the place, sir. The lady is
giving a big bazaar and her name is Mrs. Ogilvie."

"Then Sibyl must have got well again," thought Ogilvie to himself. And
just for an instant the heavy weight at his breast seemed to lift. He
paid his fare, told the man to take his luggage round to the back
entrance, and jumped out of the cab.

The man obeyed him, and Ogilvie, just as he was, stepped across the
lawn. He had the air of one who was neither a visitor nor yet a
stranger. He walked with quick, short strides straight before him and
presently he came full upon his wife in her silvery dress. A large
white hat trimmed with pink roses reposed on her head. There were
nature's own pink roses on her cheeks and smiles in her eyes.

"Oh, Phil!" she cried, with a little start. She was quite clever
enough to hide her secret dismay at his arriving thus, and at such a
moment. She dropped some things she was carrying and ran toward him
with her pretty hands outstretched.

"Why, Phil!" she said again. "Oh, you naughty man, so you have come
back. But why didn't you send me a telegram?"

"I had not time, Mildred; I thought my own presence was best. How is
the child?"

"Oh, much the same--I mean she is go