“No, papa, I refused him. I found out long ago that it was but a passing fancy I had for him, and that if my poor Rolfe had lived I could have loved him more than any other man I ever knew,” Viola answered, sorrowfully.
“Then you will be very glad to read this paragraph, my dear,” the judge exclaimed, gayly, pointing it out to her with a shaking finger.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
BON VOYAGE.
Viola saw that her father was deeply agitated over something, and cried out, excitedly:
“What is it, papa?”
“Read it, my dear, read it for yourself!” rejoined the judge, eagerly.
“Read it, my dear!” echoed her aunt, earnestly.
Viola’s eyes were so dim with the tears she had copiously shed out of sympathy with Philip Desha that at first she could scarcely see the lines, they wavered so before her gaze. She wiped them with her soft lace handkerchief, and made another effort to read the short paragraph that ran as follows:
“The vigorous Cuban policy of the new administration has resulted in setting free many American citizens long-imprisoned in Spanish dungeons, on false charges, and a strange story comes from one of these released men that the reported death of one of our famous war correspondents, Rolfe Maxwell by name, is untrue, and that the young man still lives a prisoner incommunicado in Morro Castle. Public opinion is greatly stirred up over this report, and Consul-General Lee, at Havana, will be asked to effect young Maxwell’s release at once.”