One evening, about four days later, Mrs. Waycroft hurried in to see Ann. The sharp-sighted woman, as she nodded indifferently to the visitor, and continued her work of raking live coals under a three-legged pot on the hearth, saw that Mrs. Waycroft was the fluttering bearer of news of some sort, but she made no show of being ready to listen to it. The widow, however, had come to be heard, she had come for the sheer enjoyment of recital.

"Ann," she panted, "let that oven alone and listen to me. I've got about the biggest piece of news that has come your way in many a long day."

"You say you have?" Ann's brass-handled poker rang as she gave a parting thrust at a burning chunk, and struck the leg of the pot.

"Yes, and I dropped on to it by the barest accident. About an hour after sunset to-day, I was in the graveyard, sitting over Jennie's grave, and planning how to place the new stones. I looked at the spot where I'd been sitting afterwards, and saw that it was well sheltered with thick vines. I was completely covered from the sight of anybody passing along the road. Well, as I was sitting there kind o' tired from my work and the walk, I heard a man's voice and a woman's. It was Langdon Chester and Virginia Hemingway. He seemed to be doing most of the talking, and since God made me, I never heard such tender love-making since I was born. I knew I had no business to listen, but I just couldn't help it. It took me back to the time I was a girl and used to imagine that some fine young man was coming to talk to me that way and offer me a happy home and all heart could desire. I never dreamed such tender words could fall from a man's tongue. I tried to see Virginia's face, but couldn't. He went on to say that his folks was to know nothing at present about him and her, but that everything would finally be satisfactorily arranged."

"Huh, I reckon so!" Ann ejaculated, off her usual guard, and then she lapsed into discreet silence again.

"But I got on to the biggest secret of all," Mrs. Waycroft continued. "It seems that Langdon has been talking in a roundabout way to his father about Jane's sad plight, and that Colonel Chester had agreed to send the money for the operation from Savannah."

"Huh! he's got no money to give away," slipped again from Ann's too facile lips, "and if he did have it, he wouldn't—"

"Well, that may be, or it may not," said Mrs. Waycroft; "but Langdon said he wasn't going to wait for the check. He said a man in Darley had been bantering him for a long time to buy his fine horse, Prince, and as he didn't care to keep the animal, he had sent him by one of the negroes on the place this morning."

"Oh, he did that!" Ann panted. She carefully leaned the poker against the jamb of the fireplace and sat staring, her rugged face working under stress of deep and far-reaching thought.

"So I heard him say as plainly as you and me are talking right now. He said the negro couldn't possibly make the transfer and get back with the money till about ten o'clock to-night. And that, to me, Ann—just between us two, was the oddest thing of all. For he was begging her to slip away from home at that hour and come to his house for the money, so she could surprise her ma with it the first thing in the morning."

"He was, was he? huh!" Ann rose and went to the door and looked out. There she stood stroking her set face with a steady hand. She was tingling with excitement and trying to hide it. Then she turned back and bent low to look at the coals under her pot. "Well, I reckon she was willing to grant a little favor like that under the circumstances."

"She had to be begged powerful," said the visitor. "I never in all my life heard such pleading. Part of the time he'd scold her and reproach her with not caring for him like he did for her. Then he'd accuse her of being suspicious of him, even when he was trying his level best to help her out of trouble. Finally, he got to talking about how folks died, slow-like, from cancers, and what her real duty was to her mother. It was then that she give in. I know she did, though I didn't hear what she said, for he laughed out sudden, and gladlike, and I heard him kiss her and begin over again, about how happy they were going to be and the like. I reckon, Ann, he really does mean to marry her."

"I reckon so," Ann said. "I reckon so. Such things have been known to happen."

"Well, we'll wait and see what comes of it," said Mrs. Waycroft. "Anyway, Jane will get her cancer-money, and that's all she cares for. They say she's in agony day and night, driving Virginia distracted. I'm sorry for that pore little thing. I don't like her mammy, for treating you as she has so long and persistent, but I can't hold Virginia accountable."

Ann shrugged her broad shoulders. There was a twinkling light of dawning triumph in each of her non-committal eyes, and unwonted color in her cheeks, all of which escaped the widow's notice.

"Well, that wasn't the end," she said, tentatively.

"I couldn't hear any more, Ann. They walked on. I stood up and watched them as they went on through the bushes, arm in arm, towards her home. I'm sure he loves her. Anybody would know it that heard him talk; besides she is pretty—you know that, Ann. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen anywhere. They looked fine, too, walking side by side. They say he's a spendthrift and got bad habits, but maybe his folks will be glad to have him settle down with such a sensible girl if she is poor. She'll keep him straight. I'd rather nothing is said about where Jane's money is coming from, Ann. That seems to be their secret, and I have no right to circulate it."

"I'll not talk it," Ann said. "It will be safe with me."

When the widow had left, Ann became a changed creature in outward appearance. She stood on the porch till her guest had disappeared in the dusk, and then she paced the floor of her sitting-room in a spasm of ecstasy, now and then shaken by a hearty laugh.

"I see through him," she chuckled. "He is trying to ease his dirty conscience by paying money down. It's a slick trick—on a par with a promise to marry. He's telling his filthy soul that he's saving her mother's life. The girl's as blind as a bat—the average woman can only see one thing at a time; she's simply bent on getting that money, and thinks of nothing else. But, Jane Hemingway—old lady—I've got you where I want you at last. It won't be long before your forked tongue will be tied fast in a knot. You can't keep on after me publicly for what is in your own dirty flesh. And when you know the truth you'll know, too, that it all come about to save your worthless life. You'll get down on your knees then and beg the Lord to have mercy on you. Maybe you'll remember all you've done against me from your girl-days till now as you set with your legs dangling in the grave. Folks will shun your house, too, unless you rid it of contagion. But you bet I'll call. I'll send in my card. Me'n' you'll be on a level then, and we'll owe it to the self-same high and mighty source."

Ann suddenly felt a desire for the open air, as if the very walls of her house checked the pleasurable out-pourings of her triumph, and she went outside and strode up and down in the yard, fairly aflame with joy. All at once she paused; she was confronting the sudden fear that she might be fired by a false hope. Virginia, it was true, had agreed to go to Chester's at the appointed hour, but might she not, in calmer moments, when removed from Langdon's persistent influence, think better of it and stay at home? Ah, yes, there was the chance that the girl might fail to keep the appointment, and then—

Cold from head to foot, Ann went back into the cottage and stood before the fire looking at the clock. It was fifteen minutes of ten, and ten was the hour. Why not make sure of the outcome? Why not, indeed? It was a good idea, and would save her days and days of suspense.

Going out, Ann trudged across the dewy meadow, her coarse skirt clutched in her hands till she stood in one of the brier-grown fence-corners near the main road. Here, quite hidden from the open view of any one passing, by the shade of a young mulberry-tree, whose boughs hung over her like the ribs of an umbrella, she stood and waited. She must have been there ten minutes or more, her tense gaze on the road leading to Jane Hemingway's cottage, when she was sure she heard soft footsteps coming towards her. Yes, it was some one, but could it be—? It was a woman's figure; she could see that already, and, yes, there could be no mistake now—it was Virginia. There was no one in the neighborhood quite so slight, light of foot, and erect. Ann suddenly crouched down till she could peer between the lower rails of the fence. She held her breath while the girl was passing, then she clasped her hands over her knees and chuckled. "It's her!" she whispered. "It's her, and she's headed for everlasting doom if ever a creature walked into a net of damnation."

When Virginia was thirty or forty yards away, Ann cautiously climbed over the fence, almost swearing in impatience as she pulled her skirts from the detaining clutch of thorns, briers, and splinters, and with her head down she followed.

"I'll make dead sure," she said, between pressed lips. "This is a matter I don't want to have a shadow of a doubt about."

Presently, the long, white palings comprising the front fence at the Chesters' appeared into view, and the dark, moving figure of the girl outlined against it could be seen more clearly.

Virginia moved onward till she had reached the gate. The smooth, steel latch clicked; there was a rip of darkness in the ribbon of white; the hinges creaked; the gate closed with a slam, as if it had slipped from nerveless fingers, and the tall boxwood bordering the walk to the door of the old house swallowed Virginia from the sight of her grim pursuer.

"That will do me," Ann chuckled, as she turned back, warm with content in every vein. On her rapid walk to her house she allowed her fancy to play upon scores of situations in which the happening of that night would bring dire humiliation and shame to her enemy. Ann well knew what was coming; she had only to hold the album of her own life open and let the breeze of chance turn the pages to view what Jane Hemingway was to look upon later.