Lucy collapsed to the floor in a sob. Sheppard. Opals. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. It had been cut down before life was extinct, but a ball from one of the soldiers had pierced his heart. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. He must have married when he was quite a young man. " "What has he done?" "He has just naturally peeved his Uncle Sam.
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