ng now is to bring them together before he goes. We don't
know his address, miss; we don't know what country he is in. He sent a
line to Miss Clifford a month ago from Dover, but that is all; but, in
course, he writes to you--_that_ stands to reason; you'll give me his
address, miss, won't you? and we shall all bless you."

Mary turned pale, and the tears streamed down her eyes. "Oh, sir," said
she, "I'd give the world if I could tell you. I know who you are; my poor
Walter has often spoken of you to me, Mr. Baker. One word from you would
have been enough; I would have done anything for you that I could. But he
has never written to me at all. I am as much deserted as any of you, and
I have felt it as deeply as any father can, but never have I felt it as
now. What! The father to die, and his son's hand not in his; no looks of
love and forgiveness to pass between them as the poor old man leaves this
world, its ambitions and its quarrels, and perhaps sees for the first
time how small they all are compared with the love of those that love us,
and the peace of God!" Then this ardent girl stretched out both her
hands. "O God, if my frivolous life has been innocent, don't let me be
the cause of this horrible thing; don't let the father die without
comfort, nor the son without forgiveness, for a miserable girl who has
come between them and meant no harm!"

This eloquent burst quite overpowered poor old John Baker. He dropped
into a chair, his white head sunk upon his bosom, he sobbed and trembled,
and for the first time showed his age.

"What on earth is the matter?" said Mr. Bartley's voice, as cold as an
icicle, at the door. Mary sprang toward him impetuously. "Oh, papa!" she
cried, "Colonel Clifford is dying, and we don't know where Walter is; we
can't know."

"Wait a little," said Bartley, in some agitation. "My letters have just
come in, and I thought I saw a foreign postmark." He slipped back into
the hall, brought in several letters, selected one, and gave it to Mary,
"This is for you, from Marseilles."

He then retired to his study, and without the least agitation or the
least loss of time returned with a book of telegraph forms.

Meanwhile Mary tore the letter open, and read it eagerly to John Baker.

"GRAND HOTEL, NOAILLES, MARSEILLES, _May_ 16.

"MY OWN DEAR LOVE,--I have vowed that I will not write again to tempt you
to anything you think wrong; but it looks like quarrelling to hide my
address from you. Only