Daphne could, and probably did, read of herself in the "Silver Standard,"
Sunday edition, which treats of social events, heralded among the prominent
arrivals as "Jack Withers's maiden widow." This was a poetical flight of
the city reporter. Thane had smiled at the phrase, but that was before he
had seen Daphne; since then, whenever he thought of it, he pined for a
suitable occasion for punching the reporter's head. There had been more of
his language; the paper had given liberally of its space to celebrate this
interesting advent of the maiden widow with her uncle, "the Rev. Withers,"
as the reporter styled him, "father of the lamented young man whose
shocking murder, two years ago, at Pilgrim Station, on the eve of his
return to home and happiness, cast such a gloom over our community, in
which the victim of the barbarous deed had none but devoted friends and
admirers. It is to be hoped that the reverend gentleman and the bereaved
young lady, his companion on this sad journey, will meet with every mark of
attention and respect which it is in the power of our citizens to bestow,
during their stay among us."

Now, in the dead, hot stillness, they two alone at last, Daphne sat beside
her uncle in the place of their solemn tryst; and more than ever her
excitement and unrest were manifest, in contrast to his mild and chastened
melancholy. She started violently as his voice broke the silence in a
measured, musing monotone:

"'Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pray
For the poor soul of Sibyl Grey,
Who built this cross and well.'

"These lines," he continued in his ordinary prose accent, "gave me my first
suggestion of a cross and well at Pilgrim Station, aided, perhaps, by the
name itself, so singularly appropriate; not at all consistent, Mr. Thane