dued force; Tustin, Caskey, McGraw, and half a dozen others were held for the grand jury on various counts, from murder to inciting riot; and many more were anxiously wondering if they were on the black list which, Gregg had announced, would be dealt with when Mr. Halket was able to resume his duties.
In one of Marion's visits, Floyd had said to her jocularly—yet with a touch of seriousness, too,—
"Maybe you won't feel like marrying a fellow with a Hottentot nose and a dimple in bis forehead? I was quite shocked when I first saw myself in the glass—and if you feel you really could n't live in the same house with such a face,—why, you must feel free to say so, my dear."
"Ah, Floyd! You don't think such a thing as that could make any difference!"
"Well, I don't know. Small things make all the difference sometimes, don't they?—in love."
She looked, he did not know why, a little alarmed and she answered, rather sadly, "Not with me, Floyd."
He could not understand her sadness; he supposed he had hurt her by the suggestion—even the humorous one—that she could be so easily inconstant.
"Oh, I did n't suppose you would turn away from me," he said penitently. "But I've decided I don't know so very much about girls—and I just wanted you to know that—if you had a horrid antipathy or anything—you should feel quite free."
But even this explanation did not seem to clear away the cloud from her face.
She talked with him in these visits a good deal about Lydia; she told him with what fortitude Lydia had accepted her widowhood.
"I suppose it's that Stewart died in such a way," she suggested.
"Yes," Floyd said; he added musingly, "It was the real Stewart at the end."
