Daddy had not written for nearly two months. At least, no letter from him had reached Janice. The Day family in Polktown had not gone into mourning in the Spring and Aunt 'Mira gloried in a most astonishing plum-colored silk with "r'yal purple" trimmings. Nevertheless, Janice had now all but given up hope for her father's life.

The uncertainty connected with his fate was very hard for the young girl to bear. She had the thought with her all the time—a picture in her mind of a man, blindfolded, his wrists fastened behind him, standing with his back against a sunburnt wall and a file of ragged, barefooted soldiers in front of him.

In desperation she had written a letter addressed personally to "General Juan Dicampa," sending it to the same place to which she addressed her father's letters. She did this almost in fear of the consequences. Who would read her letter now that the guerrilla chief was dead?

In the appeal Janice pleaded for her father's life and for news of him. Days passed and there was no reply. But the letter, with her name and address on the outside, was not returned to her.

Broxton Day's fate was discussed no more before Janice at home. And other people who knew of her trouble, save Nelson Haley, soon forgot it. For the girl did not "wear her heart on her sleeve."

As for the Druggs—Hopewell and his wife—they were so worried about little Lottie's case that they had thought for nobody's troubles but their own.

The doctors would not let the child return to Polktown at present. They kept her all through the Summer, watching her case. And Lottie, at a Summer school in Boston, was enjoying herself hugely. She was not yet at an age to worry much about the future.

These months of Lottie's absence were weary ones indeed for her father. Sometimes he wandered about the store quite distraught. 'Rill was worried about him. He missed the solace of his violin and refused to purchase a cheap instrument to take the place of the one he had been obliged to sacrifice.

"No, Miss Janice," he told the girl once, when she spoke of this. "I could not play another instrument. I am no musician. I was never trained. It was just a natural talent that I developed, because I found in my heart a love for the old violin my father had played so many years.

"Through its vibrant strings I expressed deeper feelings than I could ever express in any other way—or upon any other instrument. My lips would never have dared tell my love for 'Rill," and he smiled in his gentle way, "half so boldly as my violin told it! Ask her. She will tell you that my violin courted her—not Hopewell Drugg."

"Oh, it is too, too bad!" cried Janice. "And that fellow down at Lem Parraday's hotel has never succeeded in disposing of the fiddle. I wish he would sell it back to you."

"I could not buy it at the price he gave me for it," said Hopewell, sadly shaking his head. "No use to think of it."

But Janice thought of it—and thought of it often. If daddy were only—only successful again! That is the way she put it in her mind. If he could only send her some more money! There was many a thing Janice Day needed, or wanted. But she thought that she would deny herself much for the sake of recovering the violin for Hopewell Drugg.

Meanwhile nothing further had come to light regarding the missing collection of gold coins. No third coin had been put into circulation—in Polktown, at least. The four school committeemen who were responsible for the collection had long since paid the owner out of their own pockets rather than be put to further expense in law.

Jim Narnay's baby was growing weaker and weaker. The little thing had been upon the verge of passing on so many times, that her parents had grown skeptical of the doctor's prophecy—that she could not live out the Summer.

It seemed to Janice, however, that the little body was frailer, the little face wanner, the tiny smile more pitiful, each time she went to Pine Cove to see the baby. Nelson, who had come back to town and again taken up his abode with the overjoyed Mrs. Beaseley while he prepared for the opening of the school, urged Janice not to go so often to the Narnay cottage.

"You've enough on your heart and mind, dear girl," he said to her.
"Why burden yourself with other people's troubles?"

"Why—do you know, Nelson," she told him, thoughtfully, "that is one of the things I have learned of late."

"What is one of the things you have learned?"

"I have been learning, Nelson, that the more we share other people's burdens the less weight our own assume. It's wonderful! When I am thinking of the poor little Narnay baby, I am not thinking of daddy away down there in Mexico. And when I am worrying about little Lottie Drugg—or even about Hopewell's lost violin—I am not thinking about those awful gold coins and who could have taken them——"

"Here! here, young woman!" exclaimed the schoolmaster, stopping short, and shaking his head at her. "That's certainly not your personal trouble."

"Oh, but, Nelson," she said shyly. "Whatever troubles you must trouble me quite as though it were my really, truly own!"

What Nelson might have said, right there on Hillside Avenue, too—even what he might have done!—will never be known; for here Marty suddenly appeared running wildly and shrieking at the top of his lungs for them to stop.

"Hi! hi! what's the matter wi' you folks?" he yelled, his face red, and his breath fairly gasping in his throat. "I been yellin' after ye all down High Street. Look what I found!"

"Looks like a newspaper, Marty," said Nelson, calmly.

"But what is in it?" cried Janice, turning pale.

Nelson seized the paper and held it open. He read rapidly:

"'Great battle fought southwest of Chihuahua. Federal forces thoroughly whipped. Rebels led by the redoubtable General Juan Dicampa, whose reported death last Spring was only a ruse to blind the eyes of the Federals to his movements. At the head of a large force of regular troops and Yaqui Indians, Dicampa fell upon the headquarters of General Cesta, capturing or killing his entire command, and becoming possessed of quantities of munition and a great store of supplies. A telling blow that may bring about the secure establishment of a de facto government in our ensanguined sister Republic."

"Goodness me, Janice! what do you think of that? There is a lot more of it, too."

"Then—if Juan Dicampa is not dead——" began the girl.

"Sure, Uncle Brocky ain't dead!" finished Marty.

"At least, dear girl," said Nelson, sympathetically, "there is every reason to believe that what Marty says is true."

"Oh, I can hope! I can hope again!" she murmured. "And, perhaps—who knows, Nelson?—perhaps my own great trouble is going to melt away and be no more, just like last Winter's snow! Perhaps daddy is safe, and will come home."

"I wish my difficulties promised as quick a solution, Janice," said
Nelson, shaking his head. "But I am glad for you, my dear."

Marty ran ahead with the paper to spread the good news of Uncle Brocky's probable safety. Janice and Nelson were not destined to be left to their own devices for long, however. As they slowly mounted the pleasant and shady street there was the rattle of wheels behind them, and a masterful voice said:

"Whoa! That you, Schoolmaster? How-do, Janice."

"Dr. Poole!" they cried, as one.

"Bad news for you, Janice," said the red-faced doctor, in his brusk way. "Know you're interested in that Narnay youngster. I've just come from there. I've got to go half way to Bristol to set a feller's leg. They telephoned me. Before I could get there and back that Narnay baby is going to be out of the reach of all my pills and powders."

He did not say it harshly; it was Dr. Poole's way to be brusk.

"Oh, Doctor! Will it surely die?"

"Not two hours to live—positively," said the physician, gathering up the reins. "I'm sorry for Jim. If the fellow is a drunkard, he is mighty tender-hearted when it comes to kids—and he's sober," he added, under his breath.

"Is he there?" asked Janice, quickly.

"No. Hasn't been in town for two weeks. Up in the woods somewhere. It will break him all up in business, I expect. I told you, for I didn't know but you'd want to go down and see the woman."

"Thank you, Doctor," Janice said, as the chaise rattled away. But she did not turn back down the hill. Instead, she quickened her steps in the opposite direction.

"Well! I am glad for once you are not going to wear yourself out with other people's troubles," said Nelson, looking sideways at her.

"Poor Mr. Narnay," said the girl. "I am going after him. He must see the baby before she dies."

"Janice!"

"Yes. The car is all ready, I know. It will take only half an hour to run up there where those men are at work. I took Elder Concannon over there once. The road isn't bad at all at this time of year."

"Do you mean you are going clear over the mountain after that drunken
Narnay?" demanded Nelson, with some heat.

"I am going after the baby's father, Nelson," she replied softly. "You may go, too, if you are real good," and she smiled up at him so roguishly that his frown was dissipated and he had to smile in return.

They reached the Day house shortly and Janice hurried in for her dust-coat and goggles. Marty offered his own cap and "blinders," as he called them, to the schoolmaster.

"You'll sure need 'em, Mr. Haley, if you go with Janice, and she's drivin'. I b'lieve she said she was in a hurry," and he grinned as he opened the garage door and ran the Kremlin out upon the gravel.

The automobile moved out of the yard and took the steep hill easily.
Once on the Upper Road, Janice urged the car on and they passed Elder
Concannon's in a cloud of dust.

The camp where the baby's father was at work was easily found. Jim Narnay seemed to know what the matter was, for he flung down the axe he was using and was first of the three at the side of the car when Janice stopped. Mr. Trimmins sauntered up, too, but the sullen Jack Besmith seemed to shrink from approaching the visitors.

"I will get you there if possible in time to see the baby once more, Mr. Narnay, if you will come right along as you are," said Janice, commiseratingly, after explaining briefly their errand. "Dr. Poole told me the time was short."

"Go ahead, Jim," said Trimmins, giving the man's hand a grip. "Miss
Day, you sartain sure are a good neighbor."

Janice turned the car as soon as Narnay was in the tonneau. The man sat clinging with one hand to the rail and with the other over his face most of the way to town.

Speed had to be reduced when they turned into High Street; but Constable Poley Cantor turned his back on them as they swung around the corner into the street leading directly down to Pine Cove.

Janice left Nelson in the car at the door, and ran into the cottage with the anxious father. Mrs. Narnay sat with the child on her lap, rocking herself slowly to and fro, and weeping. The children—even Sophie—made a scared little group in the corner.

The woman looked up and saw her husband. "Oh, Jim!" she said. "Ain't it too bad? She—she didn't know you was comin'. She—she's jest died."

Janice was crying frankly when she came out of the house a few minutes afterward. Nelson, seeing her tears, sprang out of the car and hastened up the ragged walk to meet her.

"Janice!" he exclaimed and put his arm around her shoulders, stooping a little to see into her face. "Don't cry, child! Is—is it dead?"

Janice nodded. Jim Narnay came to the door. His bloated, bearded face was working with emotion. He saw the tenderness with which Nelson Haley led the girl to the car.

The heavy tread of the man sounded behind the young folk as Nelson helped Janice into the car, preparing himself to drive her home.

"I say—I say, Miss Janice," stammered Narnay.

She wiped her eyes and turned quickly, in sympathy, to the broken man.

"I will surely see Mr. Middler, Mr. Narnay. And tell your wife there will be a few flowers sent down—and some other things. I—I know you will remain and be—be helpful to her, Mr. Narnay?"

"Yes, I will, Miss," said Narnay. His bleared eyes gazed first on the young girl and then on Haley. "I beg your pardon, Miss," he added.

"What is it, Mr. Narnay?" asked Janice.

"Mebbe I'd better tell it ter schoolmaster," said the man, his lips working. He drew the back of his hand across them to hide their quivering. "I know something mebbe Mr. Haley would like to hear."

"What is it, Narnay?" asked Nelson, kindly.

"I—I——I hear folks says ye stole them gold coins out of the schoolhouse."

Nelson looked startled, but Janice almost sprang out of her seat. "Oh, Jim Narnay!" she cried, "can you clear Mr. Haley? Do you know who did it?"

"I see you—you and schoolmaster air fond of each other," said the man. "I never before went back on a pal; but you've been mighty good to me an' mine, Miss Janice, and—and I'm goin' to tell."

Nelson could not speak. Janice, however, wanted to cry aloud in her delight. "I knew you could explain it all, Mr. Narnay, but I didn't know that you would," she said.

"You knowed I could tell it?" demanded the startled Narnay.

"Ever since that five dollar gold piece rolled out of your pocket—yes," she said, and no more to Narnay's amazement than to Nelson's, for she had told the schoolmaster nothing about that incident.

"My mercy, Miss! Did you git that five dollar coin?" demanded Narnay.

"Yes. Right here on your porch. The Sunday you were at home."

"And I thought I'd lost it. I didn't take the whiskey back to the boys, and Jack's been sayin' all the time I double-crossed him. Says I must ha' spent the money for booze and drunk it meself. And mebbe I would of—if I hadn't lost the five," admitted Narnay, wagging his head.

"But I don't understand," broke in Nelson Haley.

Janice touched his arm warningly. "But you didn't lose the ten dollar coin he gave you before that to change at Lem Parraday's, Mr. Narnay?" she said slyly.

"I guess ye do know about it," said the man, eyeing Janice curiously. "I can't tell you much, I guess. Only, you air wrong about me passin' the first coin. Jack did that himself—and brought back to camp a two gallon jug of liquor."

"Jack Besmith!" gasped the school teacher, the light dawning in his mind.

"Yes," said Narnay. "Me and Trimmins has knowed it for a long time. We wormed it out o' Jack when he was drunk. But he was putting up for the stuff right along, so we didn't tell. He's got most of the money hid away somewhere—we don't know where.

"He told us he saw the stuff up at Massey's the night before he stole it. He went there to try to get his job back, and seen Massey puttin' the trays of coin into his safe. He knowed they was goin' down to the schoolhouse in the mornin'.

"He got drunk," pursued Narnay. "He didn't go home all night. Early in the mornin' he woke up in a shed, and went back to town. It was so early that little Benny Thread (that's Jack's brother-in-law) was just goin' into the basement door of the schoolhouse to 'tend to his fire.

"Jack says he slipped in behind him and hid upstairs in a clothes closet. He thought he'd maybe break open the teacher's desk and see if there wasn't some money in it, if he didn't git a chance at them coins. But that was too easy. The committee left the coins right out open in the committee room, and Jack grabbed up the trays, took 'em to the clothes room, and emptied them into the linin' of his coat, and into his pants' pockets. They was a load!

"So, after the teacher come into the buildin' and went out again, Jack put back the trays, slipped downstairs, dodged Benny and the four others, and went out at the basement door. Benny's always swore that door was locked; but it's only a spring lock and easy enough opened from inside.

"That—that's all, I guess," added Narnay, in a shamefaced way. "Jack backed that load of gold coin clean out to our camp. And he hid 'em all b'fore we ever suspected he had money. We don't know now where his cache is——"

"Oh, Nelson!" burst out Janice, seizing both the schoolmaster's hands.
"The truth at last!"

"Ye—ye've been so good to us, Miss Janice," blubbered Narnay, "I couldn't bear to see the young man in trouble no longer—and you thinkin' as much as you do of him——"

"If I have done anything at all for you or yours, Mr. Narnay," sobbed Janice, "you have more than repaid me—over and over again you have repaid me! Do stay here with your wife and the children. I am going to send Mr. Middler right down. Let's drive on, Nelson."

The teacher started the car. "And to think," he said softly when the Kremlin had climbed the hill and struck smoother going, "that I have been opposed to your doing anything for these Narnays all the time, Janice. Yet because you were kind, I am saved! It—it is wonderful!"

"Oh, no, Nelson. It is only what might have been expected," said
Janice, softly.