arded him with some suspicion. She stood holding
the door, without speaking, seemingly waiting for her unexpected
visitor to proclaim his mission.

"Is this the house of Stanley Armstrong?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Is he at home? I have a letter of introduction to him."

"No; he is not at home."

"Do you expect him soon?"

"He is in Chicago," answered the woman.

"In Chicago?" echoed Stranleigh. "We must have passed one another on the
road. I was in Chicago myself, but it seems months ago; in fact, I can
hardly believe such a place exists." The young man smiled a little
grimly, but there was no relaxation of the serious expression with which
the woman had greeted him.

"What was your business with my husband?"

"No business at all; rather the reverse. Pleasure, it might be called. I
expected to do a little shooting and fishing. A friend in New York
kindly gave me a letter of introduction to Mr. Armstrong, who, he said,
would possibly accompany me."

"Won't you come inside?" was her reluctant invitation. "I don't think
you told me your name."

"My name is Stranleigh, madam. I hope you will excuse my persistence,
but the truth is I have been slightly hurt, and if, as I surmise, it is
inconvenient to accept me as a lodger, I should be deeply indebted for
permission to remain here while I put a bandage on the wound. I must
return at once to Bleachers, where I suppose I can find a physician more
or less competent."

"Hurt?" cried the woman in amazement, "and I've been keeping you
standing there at the door. Why didn't you tell me at once?"

"Oh, I think it's no great matter, and the pain is not as keen as I
might have expected. Still, I like to be on the safe side, and must
return after I have rested for a few minutes."

"I'm very sorry to hear of your accident," said Mrs. Armstrong, with
concern. "Sit down in that rocking-chair until I call my daughter."

The unexpected beauty of the young woman who entered brought an
expression of mild surprise to Stranleigh's face. In spite of her homely
costume, a less appreciative person than his lordship must have been
struck by Miss Armstrong's charm, and her air of intelligent refinement.

"This is Mr. Stranleigh, who has met with an accident," said Mrs.
Armstrong to her daughter.

"Merely a trifle," Stranleigh hastened to say, "but I find I cannot
raise my left arm."

"Is it broken?" asked the girl, with some anxiety.

"I don't think so; I fancy the trouble is in