you out into the world, unprotected, and even in danger."

Major Dale pressed his lips to his daughter's brow. Indeed she had
always been his little helper, his one dear, only daughter. Her
willingness and ambition to help might have misled him, sometimes he
might have forgotten she was only fourteen years old, but now, seated
there beside him, fussing with his "curls," as she insisted his rather
long locks were, she was little Doro again, the baby that had so often
climbed on his knee, in that very room, begging for one more story when
mother announced "bed time."

The mother was gone now--and Dorothy was sitting there.

"Ah, well!" sighed the major, trying to hide his thoughts, "we must talk
of something pleasant."

"But the Burlock affair," ventured Dorothy. "I thought it would be
splendid to think of finding them. I have not seen Mr. Burlock in some
time. What do you suppose has become of him?"

Major Dale took Dorothy's hand into his own.

"Daughter," he said, "Miles Burlock has passed away."

"Dead!" gasped Dorothy.

"Yes, dead. But he was happy, glad to go, although he left his task
unfinished--he had not found his wife and child."

"What happened to him?" Dorothy asked, bewildered at the suddenness of