misfortune to Miranda, which, by this untimely arrest, he was powerless
to avert. Knowing nothing of the true contents of the letter which
Philip had substituted for the one received from Beverly, he could not
imagine an excuse for the marshal's inflexibility. He was quite ill,
too, and what with fever and agitation, his brain was in a whirl. He
leaned against the chair, faint and dispirited. The painful cough, the
harbinger of that fatal malady which had already brought a sister to an
early grave, oppressed him, and the hectic glowed upon his pale cheeks.
The marshal approached him, and laid his hand gently on his shoulder.

"You seem ill," he said; "I am sorry to be harsh with you, but I must do
my duty. They will make you as comfortable as possible at the fort. But
you must come."

Arthur followed him mechanically, and like one in a dream. They stepped
into the carriage and were driven rapidly away; but Arthur, as he
leaned back exhausted in his seat, murmured sorrowfully:

"And poor little Mary, too! Who will befriend her now?"




CHAPTER XV.


In the upper apartment of a cottage standing alone by the roadside on
the outskirts of Boston, Miranda, pale and dejected, sat gazing vacantly
at the light of the solitary lamp that lit the room. The clock was
striking midnight, and the driving rain beat dismally against the