tures at the base of the levee. Neither Rutherford nor Jessica disturbed themselves by curiosity as to why a lot of crazy people should be floundering about in the edges of a shallow lake—a lake that was a tangle of brushwood and rotting logs and matted vines. Unconcerned with them, Jessica's eye passed over a dripping figure that waded out from,the water, and came striding toward her, up the levee's slope. His was not the kind of figure that any lady should look at. He drew near, about to pass. She was only conscious of hearing the water that sloshed in his boots, and he might have got by unnoticed if she had not recognized a familiar something in his gait. She looked straight at him, and gasped:
“Furlong!”
The smeary-faced creature halted and stared incredulously, then said:
“Jess? What are you doing here?”
“I might ask what you are doing?”
From Furlong's appearance he might have been wallowing in mire; he glanced at his own muddy hand, and did not offer it. Black paste clotted upon his flannel shirt; his face was streaked with mud, and water exuded from him like a sponge. Jessica made no effort to veil her disgust as she suggested:
“Won't you speak to Senator Rutherford?”
“How are you, senator?” The young man spoke mechanically, being wholly preoccupied, not thinking about Rutherford nor looking at him. His eyes turned back to the menace of the geyser. He muttered a few words and commenced to run, when Jessica gripped his elbow.
“Wait, Furlong. Don't be in such a rush. We came down with the commission, especially to get you, and”
“Can't talk about it now. I've got to telephone for help.”
“But you must get ready to leave,” she persisted. “You are going home with us. In two hours.”
Furlong made no answer; he only tried to break loose and Jessica gave him a shake. “You are going back to New York. To the wedding.”
“Oh, yes. Alicia's wedding. That's all right. I have declined. They won't be expecting me.”
“Declined?” Jessica dropped his arm, amazed by this astounding dementia in the bristle-bearded Furlong, with the sunken cheeks, and the haggard weariness of a man who has not slept.
“Read this, Furlong,” the senator interposed. “Here's a letter from your father.”
Furlong stuffed the letter into his pocket without a glance.
“Read it.” The senator held him fast.
“Not now. Let me go.”
“But you must hurry to catch our boat.”
“No. I've got to stay here.” Furlong kept pulling back while the senator clung to him and explained:
“But, my dear boy, you need not stay here. The war department has relieved you from duty.”
Furlong whirled and confronted Rutherford with intense gray eyes as he repeated: “The war department has relieved me? From this work?”
“Yes. To take effect at once.”
The boy's head drooped, then came up with a defiant snap.
“By whose orders?” he demanded. “Upon what charges?”
“No charges were filed against you. At my request you have been honorably relieved—that is, when your resignation is sent in.”
“Oh! That's the way of it?” The color surged back into Furlong's face. “You mean if I resign?”
“Yes,” the influential personage assured him. “I've settled everything with the department.”
“Then unsettle it! Can't you see that my levee's about to break?”
“But your father! The duke's wedding!”
“Damn the duke's wedding!”
By one powerful wrench the exasperated engineer jerked loose and went running toward his camp, while Jessica stood watching Rutherford trot behind him, until both men disappeared among those queer little canvas houses.
After she had traveled two thousand miles to see him, her fiancé couldn't spare two minutes. Oh, well! Fini! She'd come to the end of that. Quite calmly Miss Faison glanced about her. Appearances must be preserved. At the base of the levee she saw that their congressional party had assembled around Colonel Clancy, so she sauntered down the slope, and nobody listened with more rapt attention while Clancy explained the nature of a sand boil.
“You will observe, gentlemen,” he said, pointing upward, “that this levee is excep-
