he capital city for the purpose of asking a
pardon for his son. The editor, in another column, briefly and firmly
expressed his faith in the belief that David Dunne would be stanch in
his views of what was right and for the public welfare.

There was one consolation; neither paper had profaned by public
mention the love of his boyhood days.

"What shall I do! What should I do!" he asked himself in desperation.

"I know what you will do," said Carey, quickly reading the unspoken
words.

"What?"

"You will do, as you always do--what you believe to be right. David,
tell me the story of those days."

So from the background of his recollections he brought forward vividly
a picture of his early life, a story she had heard only from others.
He told her, too, of his boyish fancy for Janey.

There was silence when he had finished. Carey looked into the
flickering light of the open fire with steady, musing eyes. It did not
hurt her in the least that he had had a love of long ago. It made him
but the more interesting, and appealed to her as a pretty and fitting
romance in his life.

"It seems so hard, either way, David," she said looking up at him in a
sympathetic way. "To follow the dictates of duty is so cold and cruel
a way, yet if you follow the dictates of your heart your conscience
will accuse you. But you will, when you have to act, David, do what
you believe to be right, and abide by the consequences. Either way,
dear, is going to bring you unhappiness."

"Which do you believe the right way, Carey?" he asked, looking
searchingly into her mystic eyes.

"David," she replied helplessly, "I don't know! The more I think about
it, the more complicated the decision seems."

They discussed the matter at length, and he went home comforted by the
thought that there was one who understood him, and who would abide in
faith by whatever decision he made.

The next day, at the breakfast table, on the street, in his office, in
the curious, questioning faces of all he encountered, he read the
inquiry he was constantly asking himself and to which he had no answer
ready. When he finally reached his office he summoned his private
secretary.

"Major, don't let in any more people than is absolutely necessary
to-day. I will see no reporters. You can tell them that no petition or
request for the pardon of Jud Bramble has been received, if they ask,
and oh, Major!"

The secretary turned expectantly.

"If Barnabas Brumble comes