The mother did not press him for further explanations, for she also had news to tell.  As soon as Dorian came from his room in his dry clothes, she asked him if he had seen Brother Duke on the way.

“No, mother; why?”

“Well, he was here not long ago, asking for you.  Carlia, it seems, has had a nervous break down, and the father thinks you can help.”

“I’ll go immediately.”

“You’ll have some supper first.  It will take me only a moment to place it on the table.”

“No, mother, thank you; after I come back; or perhaps I’ll eat over there.  Don’t wait for me.”  He was out of the house, and nearly running along the road.

Dorian found Carlia’s father and mother under great mental strain.  “We’re so glad you came,” they said; “we’re sure you can help her.”

“What is the matter!”

“We hardly know.  We don’t understand.  This afternoon—­that Mr. Jack Lamont—­you remember him—­he used to come here.  Well, he hasn’t been around for over a year, for which we were very thankful, until this afternoon when he came in his automobile.  Carlia was in the garden, and she saw him drive up to the gate.  When he alighted and came toward her, she seemed frightened out of her wits, for she ran terror stricken into the house.  She went up to her bedroom and would not come down.”

“He did not see her, then, to talk to her?”

“No; he waited a few moments only, then drove off again.”

“Where is Carlia now?”

“Still up in her room.”

“May I go up to her?”

“Yes; but won’t you have her come down?”

“No, I’d rather go up there, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.  Dorian, you seem the only help we have.”

He went through the living room to the stairway.  He noticed that the bare boards of the stairs had been covered with a carpet, which made his ascending steps quite noiseless.  Everything was still in Carlia’s room.  The door was slightly ajar, so he softly pushed it open.  Carlia was lying on her bed asleep.

Dorian tiptoed in and stood looking about.  The once bare, ugly room had been transformed into quite a pretty chamber, with carpet and curtains and wall-paper and some pretty furniture.  The father had at last done a sensible thing for his daughter.

Carlia slept on peacefully.  She had not even washed away the tear-stains from her cheeks, and her nut-brown hair lay in confusion about her head.  Poor, dear girl!  If there ever was a suffering penitent, here was one.

In a few moments, the girl stirred, then sensing that someone was in the room, she awoke with a start, and sprang to her feet.

“It’s only Dorian,” said he.

“Oh!” she put her hand to her head, brushing back her hair.

“Dorian, is it you?”

“Sure, in real flesh and blood and rusty-red hair.”  He tried to force cheerfulness into his words.