It did not take Plaisted long to dress that morning, and he soon appeared before the assembled family, his brow dark and his eyes flashing.

“Who did that?” he demanded as he made his appearance.

“That is just what we have been trying to find out,” replied Mr. Sherwood, who thought he was referring to the noise.

“I mean, who put that stone in my room?”

“What stone?  I hardly think you are awake yet, Plaisted,” and he regarded him severely.  “Do you know what time it is?”

Plaisted glanced at the clock, and his angry feelings were swallowed up in the feeling of shame that spread a flush over his face.

“Heavens!  I never thought it was so late as that!  So we have lost the train again by my carelessness.  Too bad, Sherwood.  But that joke was no light one.  Did you put up that stone?”

“What stone?  I don’t understand,” replied Sherwood, angrily.

Plaisted turned back into the hall, and gathered up the pieces he had flung down in his anger, then piecing it together on the table pointed to the inscription.

A roar of laughter came from Mr. Sherwood’s throat, as he took in the joke.  Dexie, hearing the laughter and knowing its cause, came boldly into the room, ready enough to confess her share of it, now that she knew her father would not scold very much about it.

“Dexie, did you do that?” he asked, as she appeared.  “That writing looks very familiar.”

“Well, I wrote the inscription,” her face never changing expression, “but I hired another person to set the stone up.  Has there been a miracle that you have come to life again?” she added, turning to Plaisted.

“Well, I’ll have to own that you have got the best of me this time, Miss Dexie; but I’ll pay you for that tombstone yet, see if I don’t,” and he seated himself to his late breakfast.

There was no need to set up a monument to Plaisted’s memory the next morning, as he was down before the breakfast bell rang, and as Mr. Sherwood kept him confined to the business they had before them, he found no time to pay Dexie back for the trick she had played him.

During the day something occurred that referred to business matters in Prince Edward Island; and becoming annoyed at Plaisted’s equivocal answers, Mr. Sherwood took the copy of the letter Dexie had brought home with her, and laid it before his eyes.  Plaisted read it with a puzzled brow and shamefaced cheeks.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, in embarrassment.

“No matter; but can you deny it is yours?”

“By thunder!  I guess I can! that is not my handwriting,” he replied, trying to bluff it off.

“No, the handwriting is not yours, I know.  But dare you say that that is not an exact copy of a letter that was written by your hand?”

“Well, you have me there, Sherwood, so I may as well own up.  I was going to do a bit of shrewd business for myself, but someone seems to have got ahead of me.  Now I look at this writing, it is singularly like the writing on my tombstone,” he added, as he studied the letter before him; “but, of course, it isn’t possible.”