The next six months Laurence Arbuthnot spent in his quiet corner of Germany, devoting all his leisure moments to the study of certain legal terms to which he had given some attention at a previous time, when, partly as a whim, partly as the result of a spasm of prudence, he had woven himself a strand of thread to cling to in the vague future by taking a course of law. His plan now was to strengthen this thread until it might be depended upon, and he spared no determined and persistent effort which might assist him to the attainment of this object.

"I find myself an astonishingly resolute person," he wrote to Agnes. "I am also industrious. Resolution and industry never before struck me as being qualities I might lay claim to with any degree of justice. Dr. Watts himself, with his entirely objectionable bee, could not 'improve each shining hour' with more vigor than I do, but—I have an object, and the hours are shining. Once there seemed no reason for them. It is not so now. I will confess that I used to hate these things. Do you repose sufficient confidence in me yet to believe me when I tell you that I actually feel a dawning interest in Blackstone, and do not shudder at the thought of the lectures I shall attend in Paris? Perhaps I do not reflect upon them with due deliberation and coolness—I cannot help remembering that you will be with me."

When he resigned his position and went to Paris she was with him. He had made a brief visit to Washington and taken her away, leaving Mrs. Merriam to adorn the house in Lafayette Square, and keep its hearth warm until such time as they should return.

It was when they were in Paris that they had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Richard Amory, who was very well known and exceedingly popular in the American colony. He was in the most delightful, buoyant spirits; he had been very fortunate; a certain investment of his had just turned out very well, and brought him large returns. He was quite willing to talk about it and himself, and was enraptured at seeing his friends. The news of their marriage delighted him; he was enchanting in his warm interest in their happiness. He seemed, however, to have only pleasantly vague views on the subject of the time of his probable return to America.

"There is no actual necessity for it," he said, "and I find the life here delightful. Bertha and the children will probably join me in the spring, and we may ramble about for a year or so." And he evidently felt he had no reason to doubt the truth of this latter statement. Bertha had been present at her friend's marriage. She had been with her almost constantly during the last days preceding it. She found great pleasure in Agnes' happiness. There had been no change in her own mode of life. Janey and Jack went out with her often, and when she was at home spent the greater part of the time with her. She helped them with their lessons, played with them, and made a hundred plans for them. They found her more entertaining than ever. Others found her no less entertaining. The old bright circle closed about her as before, and was even added to. Mr. Amory had been called abroad by business, and might return at any moment. The professor was rarely absent from his daughter's parlors when she had her guests about her. The people who had been interested in the Westoria scheme disappeared or became interested in something else. Senator Planefield had made one call after Richard's departure, and then had called no more. Bertha had seen him alone for a short time, and before he took his leave, looking a trifle more florid than usual, he had thrown into the grate a bouquet of hothouse roses.

"Damn all this!" he cried, savagely. "What a failure it has been!"

"Yes," said Bertha; "it has been a great failure."

Senator Blundel did not disappear. He began to like the house again, and to miss his occasional evening there if anything deprived him of it. He used to come and talk politics with the professor, and hear Bertha sing his favorite ballads of sentiment. During the excitement preceding the presidential election the professor found him absorbingly interesting. The contest was a close and heated one, and the usual national disasters were prophesied as the inevitable results of the final election of either candidate. Bertha read her way industriously through the campaign, and joined in their arguments with a spirit which gave Blundel keen delight. She read a great deal to her father, and made herself his companion, finding that she was able to help him with his work.

"I find great comfort in you, my child," he said gently to her once, when she had been reading.

"Do you, dearest?" she answered, and she went to him, and, standing near him, touched his gray hair with her cheek. "I find great comfort in you," she said, in a low voice. "We seem to belong to each other as if—a little as if we had been left together on a desert island."

When she went away for the summer with her children the professor went with her. He had never wondered at and pondered over her as he did in these days. Her incomings and outgoings were as they had always been. She shared the summer gayeties and went her way with her world, but it was but a short time before the kind old eyes looking on detected in her the lack of all that had made her what she had been in the past. They returned to Washington the day after the election of the new President. Their first evening at home was spent in reading the newspapers and discussing the termination of the campaign.

When Bertha rose to go to her room she stood a moment looking at the fire, and there was something in her face which attracted the professor's attention.

"My dear," he said, "tell me what you are thinking of."

She lifted her eyes and made an effort to smile, but the smile died out and left her face blank and cold.

"I am thinking of the last inaugural ball," she said, "and of Larry—and Richard—and of how I danced and laughed—and laughed—and that I shall never laugh so again."

"Bertha," he said, "my child!"

"No," she said, "never, never,—and I did not mean to speak of it—only just for a moment it all came back;" and she went quickly away without finishing.

After the election there came the usual temporary lull, and the country settled itself down to the peaceful avocation of reading stories of the new President's childhood, and accounts of his daily receptions of interested friends and advisers. The only reports of excitement came from the Indian country, where little disturbances were occurring which caused anxiety among agents and frontiersmen. Certain tribes were dissatisfied with the arrangements made for them by the government, quarrels had taken place, and it had become necessary to keep a strict watch upon the movements of turbulent tribes. This state of affairs continued throughout the winter; the threatened outbreak was an inestimable boon to the newspapers, but, in spite of the continued threatenings, the winter was tided over without any actual catastrophies.

"But we shall have it," Colonel Tredennis said to his fellow-officers; "I think we cannot escape it."

He had been anxious for some time, and his anxiety increased as the weeks went by. It was two days before the inaugural ceremonies that the blow fell. The colonel had gone to his quarters rather early. A batch of newspapers had come in with the eastern mail, and he intended to spend his evening in reading them. Among these there were Washington papers, which contained descriptions of the preparations made for the ceremonies,—of the triumphal arches and processions, of the stands erected on the avenue, of the seats before the public buildings, of the arrangements for the ball. He remembered the belated flags and pennants of four years before, the strollers in the streets, his own feelings as he had driven past the decorations, and at last his words:

"I came in with the Administration; I wonder if I shall go out with it, and what will have happened between now and then."

He laid his paper down with a heavy sigh, even though he had caught a glimpse of Miss Jessup's letter on the first sheet. He could not read any more; he had had enough. The bitter loneliness of the moment overpowered him, and he bowed his face upon his arms, leaning upon the pile of papers and letters on the table. He had made, even mentally, no complaint in the last month. His hair had grown grizzled and his youth had left him; only happiness could have brought it back, and happiness was not for him. Every hour of his life was filled with yearning sadness for the suffering another than himself might be bearing; sometimes it became intolerable anguish; it was so to-night.

"I have no part to play," he thought; "every one is used to my grim face; but she—poor child!—poor child!—they will not let her rest. She has worn her smile too well."

Once, during the first winter of his stay in Washington, he had found among a number of others a little picture of herself, and had asked her for it. It was a poor little thing, evidently lightly valued; but he had often recalled her look and words as she gave it to him.

"Nobody ever wanted it before," she had said. "They say it is too sad to be like me. I do not mind that so much, I think. I had rather a fancy for it. Yes, you may have it, if you wish. I have been gay so long—let me be sad for a little while, if it is only in a picture."

He had carried it with him ever since. He had no other relic of her. He took it from his breast-pocket now, and looked at it with aching eyes.

"So long!" he said. "So long!" And then again, "Poor child! poor child!"

The next instant he sprang to his feet. There was a sound of hurried feet, a loud knocking at his door, which was thrown open violently. One of his fellow-officers stood before him, pale with excitement.

"Tredennis," he said, "the Indians have attacked the next settlement. The devils have gone mad. You are wanted"—

Tredennis did not speak. He gave one glance round the room, with its blazing fire and lonely, soldierly look; then he put the little picture into his pocket and went out into the night.