CLARKE knew when he began to read this letter what effect it was likely to have on his own prospects, but he was little prepared for the change it was destined to make in Polly. She, who at its commencement had been merely an apprehensive child, became a wan and stricken woman before the final words were reached; her girlish face, with its irresistible dimples, altering under her emotions till little of her old expression was left. Her words, when she could speak, showed what the recoil of her whole nature had been from the depths of depravity thus heartlessly revealed to her.

“Oh, what wickedness!” she cried. “I did not know that such things could be! Certainly I never heard anything like it before. Do you wonder that I have always felt stifled in his presence?”

Mrs. Unwin and Clarke tried to comfort her, but she seemed to be possessed of but one idea. “Take me home!” she cried; “let me think it out alone. I am a disgrace to you here; he is a thief and I am the daughter of a thief. Until every cent that he has taken is returned, I am a participator in his crime and not worthy to look you in the face.”

They tried to prove to her the fallacy of this reasoning, but she would not be convinced. “Take me home!” she again repeated; and Clarke out of pure consideration complied with her request. She was still living with the Fishers, but when they reached the humble doorstep which had been witness to many a tender parting and loving embrace, Polly gave her lover a strange look, and hardly lingered long enough to hear his final words of encouragement and hope.

“I will see you to-morrow,” she murmured, “but I can say no more to-night—no, not one word”; and with something of the childish petulance of her earlier years she partially closed the door upon him, and then was half sorry for it, when she heard the deep sigh that escaped him as he plunged back into the snow that lay piled up between the house and the gate.

“I am wicked,” she muttered, half to herself, half to him; “come back!” but the words were lost in the chilly wind, and in another moment he had reached the street and was gone. Had he looked back he would not have disappeared so suddenly, for Polly, as soon as she thought herself alone, suddenly pushed open the door, peered out and, with a momentary hesitation, slipped out again into the street.

The snow had ceased falling, the moon had come out and was lighting up the great trees that lined either side of the road. Polly cast one look down the splendid but deserted vista, and then with the thoughtless daring which had always signalized her, began running down the street towards that end of the town where the road turns up towards the churchyard. She was guided by but one thought, the necessity of seeing Dr. Izard before she slept. The thickness of the snow beneath her feet impeded her steps and made the journey seem long to her panting eagerness. She met nobody, but she thought nothing of that, nor did she note that the lights were out in the various houses she passed. Her mind was so full of her purpose that the only fear of which she was conscious was that she would find the doctor away or deaf to her summons. When the tavern was passed and the shadow of the church reached, she drew a deep breath. Only a few steps more and she would be passing the gateposts in front of the Izard mansion. But how still everything was! She seemed to realize it now, and was struck by the temerity of her action, as the desolate waste of the churchyard opened up before her and she heard, pealing loud above her head, the notes of the great church-clock striking eleven!

But she knew that the doctor never retired before twelve, and the need she felt of an immediate consultation with one who had known her father in his youth, buoyed her up, and dashing on with a shudder, she turned the corner and came abreast with the house she was bound for. But here something which she saw, first dazed, then confounded her. The house was lighted! The Izard house, which had been vacated for years! Had the doctor found a tenant then without her knowledge, or, led by some incomprehensible freak, had he lighted it up himself?

While she was gazing and wondering, almost forgetting her own purpose in her astonishment at this unwonted sight, there rose a sudden wild halloo behind her, followed by the shouts of drunken voices and the sound of advancing footsteps. The visitors at her father’s cottage had reached the main street, and, seeing the lighted mansion, were as much struck by its unwonted appearance as she had been, and were coming down the road for a nearer inspection.

Alarmed now in good earnest, and by a more natural fear than that which had first agitated her, she looked around for a spot to hide in, and, finding none, plunged towards the house itself. What she expected to gain by this move she hardly knew; but once on the porch, and in the shadows of the great pillars supporting it, she felt easier; and, though she knew this laughing, careless crowd would soon be upon her, she felt the nearness of the life within to be a safeguard, and, stretching out her hand toward the front door, she was amazed to find it yield to her touch.

Under most circumstances this would have frightened her away, or, at least, would have awakened in her the instinct of alarm; but now the illuminated hall, dimly to be seen through the crack she had made, seemed to offer her a refuge, and she rushed in, closing and locking the door behind her. Instantly the desolation of these long disused rooms settled upon her, and she peered down the hall in terror, dreading and half hoping to see some one, she did not care whom, stalk from some of the several rooms on either side. But no one came, and the seeming lack of life in the spaces about her soon grew more terrifying than any appearance of man or woman would have been. The light which lured her into this desolate structure came from a lamp standing on a small table at the rear of the hall, and presently she found herself insensibly approaching it, having recognized it as one she had often seen in the doctor’s study.

But when she had stepped as far as the circular landing opening under the stairs, and noted the little winding staircase leading down from it into the space below, some faint recognition of the fact that this was the way to the doctor’s study came over her, and, advancing breathlessly on tiptoe to the railing which guarded this spot, she looked down into the well beneath, and was startled at the gust of wind which met her there, with all the chill of the outside air in it. Was the famous green door below open, and did this wind come from the graveyard?

She was conscious that she had no right to advance a step farther, and yet she knew that she must find the doctor, if only to throw herself upon his protection. So, with many a qualm and sinking of the heart, she caught up the lamp from the table near by and descended the short spiral, rightfully thinking that it would be wiser to thus flash upon the doctor in a blaze of light rather than to take him by surprise in the darkness. Finding the green door open, as she had expected, she tried to raise her voice and utter the doctor’s name, but articulation failed her. There was something so weird in her position that her usual recklessness failed to support her, and she had hardly the courage to glance into the room before which she stood, though instinct had already told her it was empty.

The wind which had met her at the top of the staircase increased as she descended, and while she was drawing in her breath before it, the light went out in her hand and she was left standing half in and half out of the doctor’s study in a condition of helplessness and terror. But this misfortune, while it abashed her, was of decided benefit in the end. For no sooner was this light out than she was met with the glimmering rays of a lantern, shining in from the graveyard without, and knowing this to be an indication of the doctor’s whereabouts, she set down the lamp and was advancing with some trepidation toward the door when her ears caught a sound—the most dreadful that could be heard in that place—that of a spade being forced into the icy ground.

Instantly her heart became the prey of a thousand sickening emotions. What was the doctor doing? Digging a grave? Impossible. And yet what else would make a sound like this? Even her usually bold spirit was startled and she shrank at the thought, wishing for Clarke, for her father, for any one to support her and take her out of the horrible, moonlighted spot where homes were being made for the dead in the dark of night.

She could not retreat and she dared not advance, yet she felt that she must settle her doubts by one glimpse of what was going on. Approaching the window she peeped out and saw—Merciful heavens, was that the doctor?—that wild figure clad in a long wool garment which swept to his heels, and digging with such frenzy and purpose that the snow flew from his spade in clouds? She was so absorbed in the sight that it was a moment before she saw that it was her mother’s grave he was unearthing and that he was doing this in his sleep. But when she fully realized the awful fact she uttered a low cry of irrepressible dismay, and no longer fearing anything but this unearthly figure she had chanced upon in the moonlight, she dashed from the spot and fled up the highway, never resting foot or stopping to breathe till she found herself in her own room at home.

Dr. Izard was mad and she alone knew the frightful secret.