When Henrietta reached her room she lighted the gas and stood for many minutes before her mirror looking at her face as it was reflected there. It was thus she took stock of herself, trying to find and appraise the real Henrietta. The face she saw surprised her, for she had come to her room feeling that she was a wrecked and ruined Henrietta. She had half expected to see the face of a hag, lined with wrinkles of moral ugliness, with eyes of a slinking liar. She saw the face of a comely woman, younger by far than her actual years warranted. On the face were no lines whatever, either of age or sin. It was the frank face with the frank eyes of unsoiled innocence.

She bent nearer and studied her eyes. They looked back at her with no signs of deceitfulness. They were clear, steady, honest. Her troubles, her mistakes, her prevarications, had left no marks. She stood back, so that her full bust was reflected, and she tilted the mirror and stood away from it so that she saw all of her figure.

She had meant, if the mirror told her that, to accept the verdict that she was old, decaying, morally and physically vile. Instead she found herself to be all she had imagined she was not. From outward view she was lovely, and her eyes refused to tell her she was depraved.

Henrietta undressed slowly, pausing again and again to drop into periods of thoughtfulness, out of which she came slowly. She was trying to rearrange her life, as if she meant, before she slept, to draw an indelible line between the Henrietta she had been and the Henrietta she meant to be.

One thing she saw clearly. There must be restitution for the ill she had wrought Freeman; for she still held herself to blame for what he had become. This restitution—since there was no longer hope of Freeman—must be made vicariously to Lem.

There were other things she must do. The lies she had told must be untold. Then, too, Carter Bruce and Gay must be set right on love's path, for Gay still held eternal resentment against Carter. Johnnie Alberson must be turned away forever. If she could hold her school position another year, or perhaps two years, she must pay Miss Susan and Gay and Lorna, and reimburse Johnnie for Freeman's pilferings. It could all be done. She fell asleep finally resolved on all these things, and slept peacefully.

Lem, for his part, went back to his lean-to and his cot among the junk in the same mind as before. He did not worry much about what women said. When the time came, if he did not hear from his father, he would cut loose from River-bank.

Henrietta made it a point to see Johnnie Al-berson the next morning before he went to his drug store, and told him, as one saying the final, unalterable word, that she would never marry him. He received this sad information cheerfully.

“Did n't think you would,” he said. “Had n't the least hope of it.”

“I'm glad,” Henrietta said. “It makes it better when you feel so.”

“Oh, I've always felt that way,” he said jauntily. “I never expected you to marry me. I expected to marry you. And I still expect to. And I'm going to.”

He smiled at her.

“But, wait,” she said, “I tell you—”

“Did you ever know me to fail in anything I ever attempted?” he asked.

She said nothing.

“Well, I do, plenty of times,” he laughed, “but this is not one of them.”

“You'll find that it is one of them,” she said, meaning it, too, but he did not seem to worry about it.

Miss Susan, since her interview with Johnnie Alberson, had been exceedingly cold to Henrietta, merely tolerating her. Now, when Henrietta turned into the house, Miss Susan was waiting for her in the hall.

“Well, Henrietta,” she said, “I must say I'm thankful, it coming just at this time when, goodness knows! I'm hard enough put to it to make ends meet. And I will say I never expected to get it. So I'm thankful.”

She handed Henrietta two slips of paper. Henrietta stared at them with amazement, for one was a receipt “in full to date,” and the other a receipt, “for board, in advance, to October 8th.”

“I don't say I've figured it exactly right,” said Miss Susan, “but I 'll make right what ain't right. And as for Mr. Todder's receipt—”

“But why? What do you mean?” asked Henrietta. “Why are you giving me these?”

“I give because I'm asked to,” said Miss Susan a trifle tartly.

“But the money! I did not pay you any money.”

“Nor did you,” said Miss Susan, “although I might well suppose you knew it had been given. Mr. Alberson—”

Henrietta colored.

“Did he dare pay this?” she asked angrily.

“He dared hand it over, as he had been told to do and as it was his duty to do,” said Miss Susan. “It's infamous! He had no right—”

“Right or no right was not for him to say,” Miss Susan said. “When your own husband sent the money—”

“Freeman? Freeman sent money? That's nonsense! Freeman sent the money to Mr. Alberson? That's absurd!”

“Absurd or not absurd it was so sent,” said Miss Susan, “and I only hope he came by it honestly; but that is no concern of mine. Paid I am, to date and more than to date, and properly grateful, I must say.”

Henrietta folded the two receipts slowly.

“Very well!” she said.

She was furious, but she had no desire to quarrel over the matter with Miss Susan. She would let Johnnie Alberson know, however, that such things could not be done. It was, as she had said, infamous. It was effrontery such as she had never imagined possible. She longed to rush to Johnnie's shop immediately and tell him so. Of course, however, that would not do. She must wait until he came.

She was interrupted by Gay and Lorna, who came down the stairs.

“Going for a walk,” Gay said. “Put on a hat and come, Henrietta.”

Henrietta slipped the receipts into her waist and took her hat from the hall rack. A walk with Gay and Lorna just then suited her well. They went up the hill, and turned, going toward the country.

“I want to tell you something,” she said, when they were striding along the country road. “There is no William Vane. I lied about him. I made him up.”

Gay laughed.

“Of course. We knew that, Henrietta.”

“I suppose so. I was clumsy—toward the last. I was worried. About Freeman.”

Gay closed her lips firmly.

“Freeman is my husband,” said Henrietta.

For a full minute Gay said nothing.

“Is that another lie?” she asked then, but her voice was choked.

“I deserve that,” said Henrietta. “No, it is not a lie. It is the full truth. Freeman is my husband. He is also a thief. He stole from Johnnie Alberson. That is why he fled. So, you see, we are a nice couple—a thief and a liar.”

Strangely enough, Lorna put her arm around Henrietta's waist. Gay stopped short. The next moment she was at the side of the road, sunk down upon the grass, her face buried in her arms, sobbing. Lorna went to her, and Henrietta stood before her.

“He is not worth it,” she said, meaning Gay's tears.

“Oh, I know! I know!” Gay wept. “It's not that. I don't know what it is. I did n't like him. I hated him. I knew he was bad. I don't know what's the matter. I'm just so miserable! I'm so wicked; so mean!”

“Don't cry; don't cry, Gay,” Lorna was begging.

“Well, I can't help it. I've been so mean to him; to Car—to Carter. And he loves—he loves me so. He's so good and—and good and—and I've been so—”

“Hush! It will be all right, Gay,” Lorna comforted. “Stop now. Pretend you've not been crying, anyway; here comes a farmer.”

Gay wiped her eyes and looked down the road. Up the hill a rig was coming slowly, one flat wheel thumping the road with a rattle of loose tire at each revolution, while it, or another wheel, screeched nerve-rackingly. In the shafts was an aged gray horse that stopped now and then to swish its tail and turn its head in an attempt to bite a horsefly on its withers. In the cart sat a fat man, a very fat man, and he objurgated the old horse vociferously.

“Dod-baste you!” he cried. “Get along there. Giddap! Go on! Dod-baste you, you're enough to make a saint swear, you old lummox, you!”

Saint Harvey of Riverbank was returning from his travels.