How they escaped from the stifling, sloppy, grimy place of torment they could not have told, had the saving of an immortal soul depended upon such telling. There was a ladder, and a failure, and a carrying of the ladder to another place by the aid of a trainman, who roared some advice as he stole a few moments for their service. Then coaxings for Dorrie, sharp directions for Sybil, and--and somehow they were standing in a street, dazzled by the sunlight, sick and faint and dirty and drabbled, but out in the pure air once more. And knowing that Dorothy's life might have gone out from sheer terror but for the aid and encouragement of the grave young man, Sybil held out both hands to him, crying: "I thank you from my heart, and I will serve you at command, for Dorrie's sake, who--who----" Her lips whitened--trembled. She clutched blindly at his arm for support. Her self-control had been wonderful, but, like everything else, it had to be paid for. The shock to her nerves had been terrible, her wound had bled profusely, and when a strong arm about her waist lifted her over the threshold into a quiet pharmacy she was just barely conscious and no more. The bald-headed little proprietor closed his doors upon the gaping crowd, and, while reviving Sybil and dressing the really ugly cut her head had received from striking against the frame of a seat, when she had fallen to the floor, he called upon his wife to descend from her room above, and she, with ready sympathy, brushed and pinned up Dorothy's raiment and sponged away the smears and smuts from her face. And when the cheerful little woman turned for a moment to the young man, to tell him she could bring him her husband's second hat, if he did not mind its being a bit burned by the suns of last summer, he overheard poor Dorothy saying: "Whatever shall we do, Sybbie? We bought return tickets, and--and we only have left ten cents, that was to have paid our street-car fare to god-mother's." A swift "S-h-h!" from Sybil silenced her. The man's heart contracted with a pang of pity for their distressful situation. The next moment he stood before them, and, addressing the elder, said: "Miss Lawton, I am going to ask permission to introduce myself to you, as there is no one to perform the service for me. I am a sort of neighbor of your family, since I, too, am summering at Yonkers. My name is Galt--Leslie Galt--and in consequence of this accident I ask you to trust yourself and your sister to my care, until I can leave you at your own front door--will you?" He waited for no answer, but continued: "I will have a carriage here almost directly, and we will board a Harlem train, get off at Mount Vernon, and then drive to your house." Sybil's spirits began to rise. "Don't you think," she asked, glancing at their sooty, oily, dirty white gowns, "we should be sent to the steam laundry before that?" "No," he gravely replied, though his eye gleamed; "not before, but after, by all means."