"Oh, please!"

The landlady stopped short and stared at her. "What? Oh, I won't go into
details--it was awful messy, and that's a fact. I didn't git over it for a
couple of months. He coulda killed himself with a six-shooter; it's always
been a mystery why he dug up that old shotgun, but he did. I always thought
he wanted to show his nerve." She sighed, and drew her fingers across her
eyes. "I don't s'pose I ever will git over it," she added complacently. "It
was a turrible shock."

"Do you know," the girl began desperately, "if Mr. Manley Fleetwood is in
town? I expected him to meet me at the train."

"Oh! I kinda _thought_ you was Man Fleetwood's girl. My name's Hawley. You
going to be married to-night, ain't you?"

"I--I haven't seen Mr. Fleetwood yet," hesitated the girl, and her eyes
filled again with tears. "I'm afraid something may have happened to him.
He--"

Mrs. Hawley glimpsed the tears, and instantly became motherly in her
manner. She even went up and patted the girl on the shoulder.

"There, now, don't you worry none. Man's all right; I seen him at dinner
time. He was--" She stopped short, looked keenly at the delicate face,
and at the yellow-brown eyes which gazed back at her, innocent of evil,
trusting, wistful. "He spoke about your coming, and said he'd want the use
of the parlor this evening, for the wedding. I had an idea you was coming
on the six-twenty train. Maybe he thought so, too. I never heard you come
in--I was busy frying doughnuts in the kitchen--and I just happened to come