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The hurried comments of the evening papers on the news were singularly unsatisfactory and non-committal. “The unprecedented storm that is now raging on the Pacific slope,” I read, “and which has temporarily cut off communications with the far West, will by its magnitude fill the country with the most serious apprehensions.” “The earliest news from California, which shall give us the details of the storm,” said another paper, “will be looked for with eagerness, and will be promptly and fully furnished to our readers.”

As curious as anybody could be to know what kind of a storm it was that had stopped railroad travel from Idaho to Mexico, and remarking with surprise that the Signal Office utterly refused to recognize a great storm anywhere, I dismissed the subject from my mind with the reflection that there would in all probability be explanatory news in the morning, and resolved to make my usual visit to the Brisbane family.

To my surprise, Kate received me cordially, and with no other allusion to the unpleasantness of the night before than a demure remark that she was afraid she had offended me.

“Let us not refer to it at all,” I said, “and thus avoid making idiots of ourselves.”

“I am glad you came to-night,” she remarked, after a moment’s silence, “for I wanted to tell you of the change we are going to make.”

A little pang darted through me. It was said so seriously.

“What is it, my dear,” I asked, trying to be as affectionate as if the conditions had not changed.

“My father and I have determined to go to Europe.”

“To Europe!” I repeated, aghast. “You surely do not mean it?”

“Yes,” resolutely. “He wanted to consult you about it, but was afraid you would disagree with his plans.”

“And when did he make up his mind to take this sudden move?”

“This morning.”

“And you intend to go with him?”

“Yes, and I was going to ask you to go, too.”

“When do you propose to go?”

“Immediately.”

It was evident to my mind now that this old man was a panic-stricken monomaniac, and had infected his daughter with his fears.

“Kate,” I said, as I took her by her hands and pulled her to the sofa beside me, “you are running away from something; it is not from me, is it?”

“I want you to go with us,” she answered.

“But you knew when you asked me that I could not go so suddenly. You expected me to refuse.”

“No,” she said, “I expect you to consent.”

“Be careful. In a moment of bravado I may take you at your word, at any cost!”

She caught hold of me. “Do,” she said, tremulously, and I felt a little shiver in her hand. “Do, do.”

“I would rather go with you than lose you,” I said at a hazard, “and if you are determined to go, I believe I will accompany you if your father will consent.”

“We are determined,” she calmly replied.

“But I must put my affairs in order,” I suggested.

“How many hours will it take you?”

“Hours?” I repeated. “You would not like to start to-night, surely?”

“Yes,” she answered, “I would gladly start to-night.”

My patience was giving way very fast at this imperturbable obduracy. “Perhaps,” I said, “you will give me some adequate reason for a haste that I cannot comprehend.”

She did not answer. She was listening, with her head averted, and she held up her hand for me to listen also, as if that were her answer. Then there came through the open window the hoarse cry of a distant newsboy who was bellowing an “extra.”

There was something weird in her attitude and action, connecting, as they did, her motives with that discordant, ominous cry.

“It’s an extra,” I said, as unconcernedly as possible. “I’ll get a copy. There may be some good news for you,” and I made a move toward the window.

“Don’t,” she said, quietly. “We were talking about going to Europe. Pa is not familiar with the business of securing passages, and you are. You could relieve him of a great deal of worry, and if you would go with us—-“