“Come into the library with me, my dear boy, I want to have a private talk with you,” said Mr. Force, some hours later in the afternoon, as he led the way into his little sanctum in the rear of the hall.

The guests had all left the house. Miss Sibby had ridden off on her mule; the young doctor had ambled away on his cob, and Roland had set out to walk to Forest Rest.

But when we say the guests had all gone, we except, of course, the permanent visitor, the lively lady from California. She was still in the house, and likely to continue there.

“Le, my dear boy,” said Mr. Force, as soon as the two were seated in the library, “I want you to give me your word of honor that you will never send a challenge, or accept a challenge, to fight a duel as long as you live.”

“Uncle Abel, I give you my word of honor, with all my heart and soul in it, that I never will,” earnestly and solemnly replied the young man.

“Thank you, my boy, thank you! Give me your hand on it! There, you are my own dear lad again!”

“Uncle Abel, you must think very badly of me for my madness and folly.”

“No, I do not, Le. No, I do not, dear lad. I know that your wrongs and your temptations were almost more than the spirit of man could bear, especially the spirit of a young man; and I thank the Heavenly Father that you have been saved from sin and delivered from danger!” gravely replied Abel Force, reverently bowing his head.

“Uncle, I wish to make a full confession to you now—to open my soul to you, as if you were my father—as, in reality, you always have been in care and affection.”

“Go on, dear lad. You can say nothing, I am sure, that I shall not be glad to hear.”

“Well, then, Uncle Abel, I must tell you that after I had sent that challenge to Col. Anglesea I went home to Greenbushes and passed the most miserable night I ever spent in my whole life.”

“I do not doubt it, lad.”

“Heaven knows that it was not from cowardice——”

“Who ever accused, or dreamed of accusing, any Force of cowardice? We have no experimental knowledge of the meaning of that word,” said Abel Force.

“No, we have not. It was not the thought of death, then, for I could meet death or deal death in the cause of duty. No; it was the foreshadowing of a great remorse. It began with the feeling that I could not, dared not, pray last night.”

“Dear lad! But you can pray to-night, Le?”

“Yes; I can pray and give thanks to-night.”

“And now you are my own dear son again, Le.”

“Oh, Uncle Abel, if I might, indeed, be your son again! If I might be reinstated in the position, the happiness, I once enjoyed in my relations, present and prospective, with you and your family!”

“What do you mean, my dear Le? And yet I need not ask you, for I know.”

“Odalite!” breathed the youth, in low, yet thrilling, tones.

“Ah, would to Heaven, my boy, that none had ever come between you!” sighed Abel Force.

“But the intruder has gone now, and left no trace behind.”

“Ah, would to Heaven he had left no trace behind! But a heart like Odalite’s does not easily recover from such a shock as she has sustained.”

“I know. And yet I think she is already recovering. Pride, duty, honor, all will help her to recover. And of this I wish to speak to you, dear sir.”

“Le, you have the most forgiving soul I ever met! Why should you take any further interest in your unhappy cousin?”

“Because I love her. And it is on this subject that I wish to speak to you. I am under sailing orders for the Pacific Coast, and——”

“Le! you under sailing orders? Why, I thought you were going to resign from the navy?”

“I should have resigned, if I could have married Odalite; but, as I could not, I did not.”

“But, even so, I thought you were now entitled to three years home service?”

“So I was, but I could not rest after I thought I had lost Odalite, and so I applied for sailing orders on the week before Odalite was to have been married. I received them one hour ago. They came on the evening mail. If I had happened to be at Greenbushes, I should not have got the letter so soon, for, you know, my mail was always sent with yours, and I have never changed the address.”

“And when do you go, Le?”

“I must join my ship at New York on the fourth of January. I must leave here on the second.”

“The day after New Year’s Day. That is very sudden.”

“Yes; and I do regret it. If I had known—if I could have foreseen events—I should have carried out my first intentions, and resigned from the service, instead of applying for sailing orders; but now that I have applied, and have received them, I must go, much as I regret to do so. I must not seem to trifle with the department or shirk my duty.”

“Certainly not, lad. And, under present circumstances, perhaps it is best that you go. You and Odalite are young, lad, and can well afford to wait a little longer. When you return from your voyage, Le, the disgraceful drama which has been enacted by this man Anglesea will have been forgotten. Odalite will have long recovered the shock to her spirit, and will be in a better condition to listen to a proposal from you, which it would be indiscreet, to say the least, for you to make her at present.”

“I see that, sir; I feel it; and that reconciles me to the idea of going to sea again. The utmost favor I plead for now is that you will permit me to see Odalite, to have a private interview with her. I shall not wound her by hinting at the hope hidden in the bottom of my heart—the hope of winning her hand some day; but I wish to ask her to correspond with me during my absence, as with a trusted relation or a true brother. Do you think, sir, that there can be any objection to my making such a request of my cousin?”

“None whatever, my dear boy. You have my fullest approval of your course, and my warmest wishes for your success.”

“Thank you, Uncle Abel.”

“And we will yet hope that the dream of your love and of my ambition may be fulfilled in the union of yourself and Odalite in a happy marriage, and the consolidation of Mondreer and Greenbushes in one great manor.”

“May Heaven grant it, Uncle Abel!”

“But, my boy, I wish you to speak to Odalite’s mother also on this subject. She must be taken into our counsels.”

“Oh, most certainly. I shall speak to Aunt Elfrida. But I wish to see Odalite first of all. I have not seen her since I saw her at the altar of All Faith Church on that broken wedding day. Why does she seclude herself so strictly? She is not indisposed. Aunt Elfrida told me she was better and brighter than she had been for many weeks. Why, then, does she keep her room?” inquired Le.

“I think, my dear lad, that she is indisposed, in one sense, at least—very much indisposed to meet a mixed company. She joined us yesterday both at dinner and at tea.”

“But I was not here!” exclaimed Le.

“No, you were not here, or you would have seen her. To-day she has kept her room to avoid our visitors. It is a very natural reserve, under the circumstances, as you must admit, Le.”

“Yes; but now they have all gone. Will she be in the parlor this evening, do you suppose?”

“No, my lad. I asked that question of her mother, who told me that Odalite was busily engaged and much interested in making things for the Sunday-school Christmas tree, and so would not come down this evening. But, Le, you may see her to-morrow morning. You will stay all night here, of course,” said Mr. Force.

“I believe they will expect me home at Greenbushes to-night; but, after all, they are too much accustomed to my eccentric comings and goings to be the least uneasy at my absence; so I think I will please myself and stay, thank you, Uncle Abel,” replied the youth.

“That is settled, then,” said Mr. Force, as he arose to lead the way back to the drawing room.