Left alone, still crouching on her door-step, Ann, with fixed eyes and a face like carved stone, watched him move away in the soft moonlight, the very embodiment of youth and faith. She twisted her cold hands between her knees and moaned. What was the matter with her, anyway? Was it possible that the recent raging fires of her life's triumph were already smouldering embers, half covered with the ashes of cowardly indecision? Was she to sit quaking like that because a mere youth wanted his toy? Was she not entitled to the sweet spoils of victory, after her long struggle and defence? Yes, but Virginia! After all, what had the innocent, sweet-natured girl to do with the grim battle? Never, in all Ann had heard of the constant gossip against her, had one word come from Virginia. Once, years ago, Ann recalled a remark of Mrs. Waycroft that the girl had tried to keep her mother from speaking so harshly of the lone brunt of general reproach, and yet Virginia was at that very moment treading the crumbling edge of the self-same precipice over which Ann had toppled.

The lone woman rose stiffly and went into the house to go to bed—to go to bed—to sleep! with all that battle of emotion in her soul and brain. The clock steadily ticking and throwing its round, brass pendulum from side to side caught her eye. It was too dark to see the hands, so she lighted a tallow-dip, and with the fixed stare of a dying person she peered into the clock's face. Half-past ten! Yes, there was perhaps time for the rescue. If she were to get to Chester's in time, her judgment of woman's nature told her one word from her would complete the rescue—the rescue of Jane Hemingway's child—Jane's chief hope and flag of virtue that she would still wave defiantly in her eyes. Without undressing—why, she could not have explained—Ann threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow, clutching it with tense, angry hands.

"Oh, what's the matter with me?" she groaned. "Why did that fool boy come here to-night, telling me that it would bring him to the gallows stained to the bone with the dye of hell, and that I must keep her in the right road—me? Huh, me keep a girl in the right track, so they can keep on saying I'm the only scab on the body of the community? I won't; by all the powers above and below, I won't! She can look out for herself, even if it does ruin an idiot of a man and pull him—It really would ruin him, though. Maybe it would ruin me. Maybe he's right and I ought to make a life business of saving others from what I've been through—saving even my enemies. Christ said it; there is no doubt about that. He said it. He never had to go through with what I have, though, for He was free from the desire to fight, but He meant that one thing, as the one great law of life—the only law of life! Oh, God, I must do something! I must either save the girl or let it go on. I don't know which to do, as God is my creator, I don't actually know which to do. I don't—I don't—I don't—really—know—which—I want to do. That's it—I don't know which I want to do. I'm simply crazy to-night. I've never felt this way before. I've always been able to tell whether I wanted, or didn't want, a thing, but now—"

She turned over on her side. Then she sat up, staring at the clock. Next she put her feet on the floor and stood erect. "I won't," she said, between set teeth. "I won't. Before God, and all the imps of hell I'll not meddle with it. It's Jane Hemingway's business to look after her silly girl, and not mine."

She went again to the porch and stood staring out into the white moonlight. The steady beat of the hoofs of Luke King's horse, dying out on the still night, came to her. Dear, dear boy! he did love the girl and he never would be the same again—never. It would mean his downfall from the glorious heights he had climbed. He would grapple as a wild beast with the despoiler, and, as he said, go willingly to his own end? Yes, that was Luke King; he had preached of the rugged road to heaven, he would take the easier way to hell, and laugh in his despair at the whole thing as a joke of fate.

Before she knew it, Ann found herself out at her gate. Forces within her raised her hand to the latch and pushed her body through.

"I'll not meddle," she said, and yet she moved on down the road. She met no one, heard nothing save the dismal croakings of the frogs in the marshes. On she went, increasing her speed at every step. Yes, she realized now that she must try to save the girl, for Virginia had done her no personal injury. No, she must abide another time and seek some other means for revenge against the mother. Chance would offer something. Why, the cancer—why hadn't she thought of that? Wasn't that enough for any human being to bear? Yes, Jane would get her reward. It was fast on the road. And for Luke's sake—for the sake of the brave, good-hearted, struggling boy, she would try to save his sweetheart. Yes, that seemed inevitable. The long, white fence of the Chester place suddenly cut across her view. Near the centre Ann descried the tall, imitation stone gate-posts, spanned at the top by a white crescent, and towards this portal she sped, breathing through her big nostrils like a laboring ox.

Reaching the gate and opening it, she saw a buggy and a pair of horses hitched near the door. Ann paused among the boxwood bushes and stared in perplexity. What could it mean? she asked herself. Had Colonel Chester suddenly returned home, or was Langdon recklessly planning to flee the country with the thoughtless girl? Mystified, Ann trudged up the gravelled walk, seeing no one, till she stood on the veranda steps. The big, old-fashioned drawing-room on the right of the dark entrance-hall was lighted up. Loud, masculine laughter and bacchanalian voices burst through the half-open windows. Ann went up the steps and peered in at one of them, keeping her body well back in the shadow. There were three men within—two drummers, one of whom was Fred Masters, and Langdon Chester. The latter, calm and collected, and yet with a look of suppressed fury on his face, was reluctantly serving whiskey from an ancient cut-glass decanter. Ann saw that he was on the verge of an angry outburst, and began to speculate on the cause. Ah! she had an idea, and it thrilled her through and through. Quietly retracing her steps to the lawn, she inspected the exterior of the great, rambling structure. She was now sure that the visit of the men had come in the nature of an unwelcome surprise to the young master of the house, and she found herself suddenly clinging to the warm hope that the accident might have saved the girl.

"Oh, God, let it be so!" Ann heard herself actually praying. "Give the poor young thing a chance to escape what I've been through!"

But where was the object of her quest? Surely, Virginia had not gone back home, else Ann would have met her on the way. Looking long and steadily at the house, Ann suddenly descried a dim light burning up-stairs in the front room on the left-hand side of the upper hall. Instinct told her that she ought to search there, and, going back to the house, the determined rescuer crossed the veranda, walked boldly through the open doorway, and tiptoed to the foot of the broad, winding stairway. Loud laughter, the clinking of glasses, and blatant voices raised in harsh college-songs burst upon her. The yawning space through which the stairs reached upward was dark, but with a steady hand on the smooth walnut balustrade, Ann mounted higher and higher with absolutely fearless tread. She had just gained the first landing, and stood there encompassed in darkness, when the door of the drawing-room was suddenly wrenched open and Langdon and Masters, in each other's arms, playfully struggled into view.

"You really must go now, boys," Chester was saying, in a persuasive voice. "I don't want to be inhospitable, you know, but I have that important work to do, and it must be done to-night. It is a serious legal matter, and I promised to mail the papers to my father the first thing in the morning."

"Papers nothing!" Masters cried, in a drink-muffled tone. "This is the first time I ever honored your old ancestral shack with my presence, and I won't be sent off like a tramp from the door. Besides, you are not open and above-board—you never were so at college. That was your great forte, freezing your friends out of asking questions where your private devilment was concerned. That, and the reputation of your family for fighting duels, kept the whole school afraid of you. On my honor, Dick," he called out to the man in the drawing-room, "I tell you I'm sure I saw a woman with him on the steps of the veranda as we drove up. He had hold of her hand and was pulling her into the hall."

"Ah, don't be absurd," Ann heard Chester say, with a smooth, guarded laugh. "Get in your rig, boys, and drive back to the hotel. I'll see you in the morning."

"Get in the rig nothing!" Masters laughed. "We are going to spend the night here, aren't we, Dick?"

"You bet; that's what I came for," a voice replied from within. "But let him go do his work, Fred. You and I can finish the game, and empty his decanter. You can't walk off with my money and not give me a chance to win it back."

"Yes, yes, that's a bang-up idea," Masters laughed, and he pushed Chester by main force back into the light. "You go burn the midnight oil, old man, and I'll make this tenderfoot telegraph his house for more expense money."

With a thunderous slam, the door was closed. Loud voices in hot argument came from the room, and then there was silence. Chester had evidently given up in despair of getting rid of his guests. Ann moved on up the steps. In the room on the left the light was still burning, she could see a pencil of it under the door-shutter. To this she groped and softly rapped, bending her ear to the key-hole to listen. There was no sound within. Ann rapped again, more loudly, her hand on the latch. She listened again, and this time she was sure she heard a low moan. Turning the bolt, she found the door locked, but at the same instant noticed that the key had been left in the door on the outside. Turning the key, Ann opened the door, went in, and softly closed the opening after her. A lamp, turned low, stood on the mantel-piece, and in its light she saw a crouching figure in a chair. It was Virginia, her face covered with her hand, moaning piteously.

"Let me go home, for God's sake, let me go home!" she cried, without looking up. "You said I was to get the money, if I came only to the door, and now—oh, oh!" The girl buried her face still deeper in her apron and sobbed.

Ann, an almost repulsive grimace on her impassive face, stood over her and looked about the quaintly furnished room with its quiet puritanical luxury of space, at the massive mahogany centre-table, with carved legs and dragon-heads supporting the polished top, the high-posted bed and rich, old, faded canopy, the white counterpane and pillows looking like freshly fallen snow.

"Thank God," Ann said, aloud.

Virginia heard, sat as if stunned for an instant, and then with a stare of bewilderment looked up.

"Oh!" she gasped. "I thought it was—"

"I know, huh, child! nobody could know better than I do. Don't ask me what I come here for. I don't know any better than you do, but I come, and I'm going to get you out of it—that is, if I'm in time to do any good at all. Oh, you understand me, Virginia Hemingway. If I'm in time, you'll march out of here with me, if not, God knows you might as well stay here as anywhere else."

"Oh, Mrs. Boyd, how can you ask me such an awful—"

"Well, then, I won't!" Ann said, more softly. "Besides, I can see the truth in your young face. The Almighty has put lights in the eyes of women that only one thing can put out. Yours are still burning."

Virginia rose to her feet and clutched Ann's strong arm convulsively.

"Oh, if you only knew why I came, you'd not have the heart to think me absolutely bad. Mrs. Boyd, as God is my Judge, I came because he—"

"You needn't bother to tell me anything about it," Ann grunted, with a shrug of her shoulders. "I know why you come; if I hadn't suspicioned the truth I'd have let you alone, but I ain't going to tell you why I come. I come, that's all. I come, and if we are going to get out of here without a scandal we've got to be slick about it. Those devils are still carousing down there. Let's go now while the parlor door is shut."

They had reached the threshold of the chamber when Virginia drew back suddenly.

"He told me not to dare to go that way!" she cried. "He said I'd be seen if I did. He locked me in, Mrs. Boyd—he locked the door!"

"I know that, too," Ann retorted, impatiently. "Didn't I have to turn the key to get in? But we've got to go this way. We've got to go down them steps like I come, and past the room where they are holding high carnival. We've got to chance it, but we must be quick about it. We haven't time to stand here talking."

She turned the carved brass knob and drew the shutter towards her. At the same instant she shrank back into Virginia's arms, for the drawing-room door was wrenched open, and Masters's voice rang out loudly in the great hall.

"We will see where he bunks, won't we, Dick? By George, the idea of an old college-chum refusing to let a man see his house! I want to look at the photographs you used to stick up on the walls, you sly dog! Oh, you've got them yet! You don't throw beauties like them away when they cost a dollar apiece."

"Go back to your game, boys!" Langdon commanded, with desperate coolness. "I'll show you the house after a while. Finish your game!"

"The cold-blooded scoundrel!" Ann exclaimed, under her breath. "Not a drop has passed his lips to-night, as much as he likes a dram." She closed the door gently and stood looking about the room. On the edge of the mantel-piece she saw something that gleamed in the dim lamplight, and she went to it. It was a loaded revolver.

"He threatened you with this, didn't he?" Ann asked, holding it before her with the easy clasp of an expert.

"No, he didn't do that," Virginia faltered, "but he told me if—if I made a noise and attracted their attention and caused exposure, he'd kill himself. Oh, Mrs. Boyd, I didn't mean to come here to this room at first. I swear I didn't. He begged me to come as far as the front door to get the money the man had brought back from Darley, then—"

"Then those drunken fools drove up, and he persuaded you to hide here," Ann interrupted, her mind evidently on something else. "Oh, I understand; they played into his hands without knowing it, and it's my private opinion that they saved you, silly child. You can't tell me anything about men full of the fire of hell. You'd 'a' gone out of this house at break of day with every bit of self-respect wrung out of you like water out of a rag. You'd 'a' done that, if I hadn't come."

"Oh, Mrs. Boyd—"

"Don't oh Mrs. Boyd me!" Ann snapped out. "I know what I'm talking about. That isn't the point. The point is getting out to the road without a row and a scandal that will ring half-way round the world. Let a couple of foul-mouthed drummers know a thing like this, and they would actually pay to advertise it in the papers. I tell you, child—"

Ann broke off to listen. The door of the drawing-room seemed to be opened again, and as quickly closed.

"Come on." Ann held the revolver before her. "We've got to make a break for freedom. This ain't no place for a pure young woman. You've got what the highfaluting society gang at Darley would call a chaperon, but she isn't exactly of the first water, according to the way such things are usually graded. Seems like she's able to teach you tricks to-night."

Virginia caught Ann's arm. "You are not going to shoot—" she began, nervously.

"Not unless I have to," Ann said. "But only hell knows what two drunken men and a cold, calculating devil of that brand will do in a pinch. I'll see you down them steps, and out into God's moonlight, if I have to drag you over enough corpses to make a corduroy road. I know how to shoot. I killed a squirrel once in a high tree with a pistol. Come on; they happen to be quiet right now."

Ann opened the door and led the quaking girl across the upper corridor to the stairs, and they began to grope down the steps, Ann's revolver harshly scratching as it slid along the railing. The voices in the drawing-room, as they neared the door, grew more boisterous. There was a spasmodic and abortive effort at song on the part of Masters, a dash of a deck of playing-cards on the floor, angry swearing, and the calm remonstrance of the master of the house. Down the steps the two women went till the drawing-room door was passed. Then the veranda was gained, and the wide lawn and gravelled walks stretched out invitingly in the moonlight.

"Thank God," Ann muttered, as if to herself. "Now come on, let's hustle out into the shelter of the woods."

Speeding down the walk, hand-in-hand, they passed through the gate and reached the road. "Slick as goose-grease," Ann chuckled. "Now we are plumb safe—as safe as we'd be anywhere in the world."

Drawing Virginia into the shadow of the trees bordering the road, she continued, more deliberately: "I could take you through the woods and across my meadows and fields, but it's a rough way at night, and it won't be necessary. We can take the main road and dodge out of the way if we hear anybody coming."

"I'm not afraid now," Virginia sighed. "I'm not thinking about that. I'm only worried about what you think—what you think, Mrs. Boyd."

"Never you mind what I think, child," Ann said, quietly. "God knows I never would blame you like other folks, for I know a thing or two about life. I've learned my lesson."

Virginia laid her hand firmly on Ann's strong one. "He promised me the money to have mother's operation performed. Oh, I couldn't let the chance escape, Mrs. Boyd—it meant so much to the poor woman. You have no idea what torture she is in. He wouldn't give it to me unless—unless I went all the way to his house for it. I hardly knew why, but—yes, I knew—"

"That's right," Ann broke in, "it won't do any good to tell a story about it. You knew what he wanted; any girl of your age with common-sense would know."

"Yes, I knew," Virginia confessed again, her head hanging, "but it was the only chance to get the money, and I thought I'd risk it. I did risk it, and have come away empty-handed. I'm safe, but my poor mother—"

"Put that woman out of it for one minute, for God's sake!" Ann hurled at her. "And right here I want it understood I didn't leave a warm bed to-night to do her a favor. I done it, that's all there is about it, but keep her out of it."

"All right," the girl gave in. "I don't want to make you mad after what you have done, but I owe it to myself to show you that I was thinking only of her. I am not bad at heart, Mrs. Boyd. I wanted to save my mother's life."

"And you never thought of yourself, poor child!" slipped impulsively from Ann's firm lips. "Yes, yes, I believe that."

"I thought only of her, till I found myself locked there in his room and remembered what, in my excitement, I had promised him. I promised him, Mrs. Boyd, to make no outcry, and—and—" Virginia raised her hands to her face. "I promised, on my word of honor, to wait there till he came back. When you knocked on the door I thought it was he, and when you opened it and came in and stood above me, I thought it was all over. Instead, it was you, and—"

"And here we are out in the open air," Ann said, shifting the revolver to the other hand. She suddenly fixed her eyes on Virginia's thin-clad shoulders. "You didn't come here a cool night like this without something around you, did you?"

"No, I—oh, I've left my shawl!" the girl cried. "He took it from me, and kept it. He said it was to bind me to my promise to stay till he got back."

"The scoundrel!—the wily scamp!" Ann muttered. "Well, there is only one thing about it, child. I'm going back after that shawl. I wouldn't leave a thing like that in the hands of a young devil beat in his game; he'd make use of it. You go on home. I'll get your shawl by some hook or crook. You run over to my house on the sly to-morrow morning and I'll give it back to you."

"But, Mrs. Boyd, I—"

"Do as I tell you," the elder woman commanded, "and see that you keep this thing from Jane Hemingway. I don't want her to know the part I've taken to-night. Seems to me I'd rather die. What I've done, I've done, but it isn't for her to know. I've helped her daughter out of trouble, but the fight is still on between me and her, and don't you forget it. Now, go on; don't stand there and argue with me. Go on, I tell you. What you standing there like a sign-post with the boards knocked off for? Go on home. I'm going back for that shawl."

Virginia hesitated for a moment, and then, without speaking again, and with her head hanging down, she turned homeward.