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 "What do you mean, may I ask?"

Willard Frost coughed, and took her fan with affectionate solicitude.

"It may not be just fair to answer your question. I am sorry."

"Mr. Milburn is a friend of mine, and if anything has happened to him why shouldn't I know it?" she inquired, somewhat tremulously.

No combination of letters can hope to convey an idea of the music of her rare utterance of her sweetheart's name.

"But you wouldn't like him better for the knowing," he interrupted. "Besides, he will come out all right if he follows my instructions implicitly."

She stared blankly at him, vainly trying to comprehend what he meant. Then there came an anxious look on her face, such a look as people wear when they wish to ask something of great moment, but dare not begin. At last she summoned up courage.

"Mr. Frost," she said, in a weak, low voice, "he—Robert—hasn't done anything wrong?"

"Wrong, what do you call wrong?" was the laconic question, "but I trust the matter is not so serious as it appears."

"Ah, I am so foolish," and she smiled gently.