ent Durward glanced at his
watch. If he waited long, he would be too late for the cars, and
with a hasty adieu he left the parlor, turning back ere he reached
the outer door, and telling his mother he must speak with her alone.
If Mrs. Graham had at first intended to divulge what she knew, the
impulse was now gone, and to her son's urgent request that she should
disclose what she knew, she replied, "It isn't much--only your father
has another daguerreotype, the counterpart of the first one. He
procured it in Cincinnati, and 'Lena I know was not there."

"Is that all?" asked Durward, in a disappointed tone.

"Why no, not exactly. I have examined both pictures closely, and I
do not think they resemble 'Lena as much as we at first supposed.
Possibly it might have been some one else, her mother, may be," and
Mrs. Graham looked earnestly at her son, who rather impatiently
answered, "Her mother died years ago."

At the same time he walked away, pondering upon what he had heard,
and hoping, half believing, that 'Lena would yet be exonerated from
all blame. For a moment Mrs. Graham gazed after him, regretting that
she had not told him all, but thinking there was time enough yet, and
remembering that her husband had said she might wait until his
return, if she chose, she went back to the parlor while Durward kept
on his way.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE WANDERER.

Fiercely the noontide blaze of a scorching July sun was falling upon
the huge walls of the "Laurel Hill Sun," where a group of idlers were
lounging on the long, narrow piazza, some niching into still more
grotesque carving the rude, unpainted railing, while others, half
reclining on one elbow, shaded their eyes with their old slouch hats,
as they gazed wistfully toward the long hill, eager to catch the first
sight of the daily stage which was momentarily expected.

"Jerry is late, to-day--but it's so plaguy hot he's favorin' his
hosses, I guess," said the rosy-faced landlord, with that peculiar
intonation which stamped him at once a genuine Yankee.

"A watched pot never biles," muttered one of the loungers, who
regularly for fifteen years had been at his post, waiting for the
stage, which during all that time had brought him neither letter,
message, friend, nor foe.

But force of habit is everything, and after the very wise saying
recorded above, he resumed his whittling, never again looking up until
the loud blast of the driver's horn was heard on the d