that Beecher actually sickened with
terror.

"It will be quite time enough to make further arrangements when I confer
with the members of my family," said Beecher, haughtily.

To this speech Davis only answered by another grin, that spoke as plain
as words could, "Even the high tone will have no effect upon _me_."
Luckily this penance was not long to endure, for Lizzy had drawn her
father aside, and was whispering a few last words to him. It was in a
voice so low and subdued they spoke that nothing could be heard; but
Beecher imagined or fancied he heard Grog mutter, "'Pluck' will do it;
'pluck' will do anything." A long, affectionate embrace, and a fondly
uttered "Good-bye, girl," followed, and then, shaking hands with
Beecher, Davis lighted his cigar and departed.

Lizzy opened the window, and, leaning over the balcony, watched
the carriage as it sped along the valley, the lights appearing and
disappearing at intervals. What thoughts were hers as she stood there?
Who knows? Did she sorrow after him, the one sole being who had cared
for her through life; did her heart sadden at the sense of desertion;
was the loneliness of her lot in life then uppermost in her mind; or
did she feel a sort of freedom in the thought that now she was to be
self-guided and self-dependent? I know not. I can only say that, though
a slight flush colored her cheek, she shed no tears; and as she closed
the window and returned into the room, her features were calm and
emotionless.

"Why did not papa take the route by Strasburg? It is much the shortest?"

"He couldn't," said Beecher, with a triumphant bitterness,--"he could
n't. He can't go near Paris."

"By Verviers, then, and Belgium?" said she, reddening.

"He'd be arrested in Belgium and tried for his life. He has no road left
but down the Rhine to Rotterdam."

"Poor fellow!" said she, rising, "it must be a real peril that turns
_him_ from his path." There was an accent on the pronoun that almost
made the speech a sarcasm; at all events, ere Beecher could notice it,
she had left the room.

"Now, if Fortune really meant to do me a good turn," said Beecher to
himself, "she 'd just shove my respected father-in-law, writing-desk,
pocket-book, and all, into the 'Rheingau,' never to turn up again." And
with this pious sentiment, half wish, half prayer, he went downstairs
and strolled into the street.

As the bracing night air refreshed him, he walked along briskly towards
Lindenthal,