his body burning in his face,--not merely an evidence of the exertion
made in that operation, which he endeavored to perform noiselessly. He
was ashamed of this caging business; but he would have argued you out
of countenance then and there, had you ventured a word against the
government,--though, as he said, he was in the dark concerning the
prisoner's crime.

When he went down stairs he found supper prepared, and Pauline and
their daughter waiting for him. He sat down in silence, seeking to
avoid the questioning eyes which turned toward him so expectant and so
hopeful. Discerning his mood, neither wife nor daughter troubled him
with questions; at last, of himself, he broke out vehemently,--

"I wouldn't for the world have lost the chance! Laval wasn't the man to
take care of that gentleman. But he don't say a word against Laval,
mind you. He spoke about the flowers and the music. Oh, hang it!"

Here, in spite of himself, the Drummer was wholly overcome. He bowed
his head to the table and broke into violent weeping. Another barrier
gave way beside. Elizabeth flew to him. He seemed not to heed her, nor
the sudden cry, "Oh, father!" that escaped her. She sat down by his
side,--she wept as he was weeping. It was a stormy emotion that raged
through her heart, when her tears burst forth. She was not weeping for
pity merely, nor because her father wept. Long before he lifted his
head, she was erect, and quiet, and hopeful,--but a child no more. She
was a woman to love, a woman to dare,--fit and ready for the guiding of
an angel. By-and-by Adolphus said to Pauline,--"If any one else had
undertaken this job in our place, we should have deserved to be shut
out of heaven for it. Thinking twice about it! I'm ashamed of myself.
Why,--why,--he looks like a ghost. But he won't look that way long! We