two
maids."

One afternoon late in August a chance remark of Kismine's changed the
face of the entire situation, and threw John into a state of terror.

They were in their favourite grove, and between kisses John was
indulging in some romantic forebodings which he fancied added
poignancy to their relations.

"Sometimes I think we'll never marry," he said sadly. "You're too
wealthy, too magnificent. No one as rich as you are can be like other
girls. I should marry the daughter of some well-to-do wholesale
hardware man from Omaha or Sioux City, and be content with her
half-million."

"I knew the daughter of a wholesale hardware man once," remarked
Kismine. "I don't think you'd have been contented with her. She was a
friend of my sister's. She visited here."

"Oh, then you've had other guests?" exclaimed John in surprise.

Kismine seemed to regret her words.

"Oh, yes," she said hurriedly, "we've had a few."

"But aren't you--wasn't your father afraid they'd talk outside?"

"Oh, to some extent, to some extent," she answered, "Let's talk about
something pleasanter."

But John's curiosity was aroused.

"Something pleasanter!" he demanded. "What's unpleasant about that?
Weren't they nice girls?"

To his great surprise Kismine began to weep.

"Yes--th--that's the--the whole t-trouble. I grew qu-quite attached to
some of them. So did Jasmine, but she kept inv-viting them anyway. I
couldn't under_stand_ it."

A dark suspicion was born in John's heart.

"Do you mean that they _told_, and your father had
them--removed?"

"Worse than that," she muttered brokenly. "Father took no chances--and
Jasmine kept writing them to come, and they had _such_ a good
time!"

She was overcome by a paroxysm of grief.

Stunned with the horror of this revelation, John sat there
open-mouthed, feeling the nerves of his body twitter like so many
sparrows perched upon his spinal column.

"Now, I've told you, and I shouldn't have," she said, calming suddenly
and drying her dark blue eyes.

"Do you mean to say that your father had them _murdered_ before
they left?"

She nodded.

"In August usually--or early in September. It's only natural for us to
get all the pleasure out of them that we can first."

"How abominable! How--why, I must be going crazy! Did you really admit
that--"

"I did," interrupted Kismine, shrugging her shoulders. "We can't very
well imprison them like those aviators, where they'd be a continual
repro