he
could not confess to him then or thereafter unless Providence made clear
the purity of her birth to her and to all the world. When finally there
came to her a long, friendly, even dignified letter from the far South,
the roses began to struggle back to her cheeks and the warmth to her
heart. Her response brought a prompt answer from him, and the roses grew
faster than the spring itself. Friendship, sweet and loyal, marked every
word that passed between them, but there was a dear world in each
epistle--for her, at least, a world of comfort and hope. She was
praying, hungering, longing for June to come--sweet June and its tender
touch--June with its bitter-sweet and sun clouds. Now she was forgetting
the wish which had been expressed to Anderson Crow on the drive home
from Boggs City. In its place grew the fierce hope that the once
despised detective might clear away the mystery and give her the right
to stand among others without shame and despair.

"Hear from Wick purty reg'lar, don't you, Rosalie?" asked Anderson
wickedly, one night while Blootch was there. The suitor moved uneasily,
and Rosalie shot a reproachful glance at Anderson, a glance full of
mischief as well.

"He writes occasionally, daddy."

"I didn't know you corresponded reg'larly," said Blootch.

"I did not say regularly, Blucher."

"He writes sweet things to beat the band, I bet," said Blootch with a
disdain he did not feel.

"What a good guesser you are!" she cried tormentingly.

"Well, I guess I'll be goin'," exploded Blootch wrathfully; "it's
gittin' late."

"He won't sleep much to-night," said Anderson, with a twinkle in his
eye, as the gate slammed viciously behind the caller. "Say, Rosalie,
there's somethin' been fidgetin' me fer quite a while. I'll blurt it
right out an' have it over with. Air you in love with Wick Bonner?"

She started, and for an instant looked at him with wide open eyes; then
they faltered and fell. Her breath came in a frightened, surprised gasp
and her cheeks grew warm. When she looked up again, her eyes were soft
and pleading, and her lips trembled ever so slightly.

"Yes, Daddy Crow, I love him," she almost whispered.

"An' him? How about him?"

"I can't answer that, daddy. He has not told me."

"Well, he ought to, doggone him!"

"I could not permit him to do so if he tried."

"What! You wouldn't permit? What in tarnation do you mean?"

"You forget, daddy, I have no right to his love. It would be wron