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 was brought up with a sudden bang in the head—a bang of warning that he would have to avoid abrupt movements for some little time yet. With slower, chastened steps he gained this window and held its curtains wide; then muttered in astonished wrath. The sun was there, on that side, and half-way down the heavens—more than half-way. The time was no longer morning—it was afternoon. He had slept all day—he had missed the appointment to play golf with Miss Boland.

"Lahleet!" he called sharply; and this time there came an answer, but not from the Indian girl. To his utter astonishment there stepped from between curtains beyond the piano Miss Marceau, the teacher of the Indian School at Shell Point who had come to his office yesterday morning. She was dressed as then; she looked as then, prim, pretty and dignified, only a little reproving as at the harshness of his tone.

"Miss Marceau!" Harrington stammered. "How do you come here? I was looking for the little Indian girl. I was a trifle provoked with her. She has been awful kind to me—a regular good Samaritan. But she let me oversleep!"

"Yes?" queried Miss Marceau, in a concerned voice, but faintly tinged with rebuke. "You were sleeping so soundly that she wouldn't rouse you. Exhausted nature, no doubt; and, as it was only a golf game!"

"Hum! I see!" commented Henry, rather glumly. "Well, the damage is done now. Hum!" His eyes skirted the room. "Excuse me, Miss Marceau, if I sit!" he said, and sank down upon the stool to think it out. Yes—seven minutes past four by the ivory clock there upon the piano. The whole day gone! And—by