"He's dead," exclaimed Austin. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. But we wished to ascertain whether Mrs. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. "To be sure he has!" returned Mrs.
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