Captain Thorne and Edith were left alone. The girl stepped over to a small table on which stood a vase of roses, and, with somewhat nervous hands, she busied herself arranging them. The young officer watched her in silence for a little while, the moments tense with emotion.

“Shall I see Mrs. Varney again?” he began at last.

“Oh, I suppose so, but not now. I heard her go upstairs to Howard.”

“How is he?”

“Desperately ill.”

“I am sorry.”

“Yes,” said the girl.

“I have a very little time to stay and——”

“Oh—not long?” asked Edith.

“No, I am sorry to say.”

“Well, do you know,” she looked at him archly, “I believe you will have more time than you really think you have. It would be odd if it came out that way, wouldn’t it?” she continued, as she played with the flower in her hand.

“Yes, but it won’t come out that way,” said Thorne, as he stepped closer to her.

“You don’t know,” she faltered, as Thorne drew the flower from her and took her hand in his. They stood there quiet a moment, and she did not draw her hand away. “Well, it makes no difference how soon you are going away; you can sit down in the meantime if you want to.”

“It is hardly worth while,” he said; “my time is so short.”

“You would better,” interrupted the girl; “I have a great many things to say to you.”

“Have you?” he asked, sitting down on the little sofa by her side in compliance with her invitation.

“Yes.”

“But I have only one thing to say to you—Miss Varney and—that is”—Thorne took her other hand in both of his—“good-bye.”

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