"Fifteen miles by carriage road, twenty by rail. There is the trap. Father, I am going upstairs now; and, if you please, I want to be alone till--till--till--" One hand clutched her throat, and she looked appealingly into Mr. Herriott's eyes. He smiled, stooped, and pressed to his lips the slender fingers he held. "Set your mind at rest about Mrs. Mitchell. She shall be here, if I have to send a special for her." When explanation and instructions had been given to Aaron and Minerva, Eglah went upstairs and locked herself in the room to which had been removed the furniture and portraits Mrs. Maurice held sacred. Up and down she walked, feeling that an iron band was throttling her. She and her father were drifting out to a black gulf of humiliation--of hopeless disgrace--and only that box of papers could rescue, anchor them in safety. Mr. Herriott loved her so devotedly, she believed that when she was his wife he would yield the papers in answer to her prayers. If he refused? She recalled the ring of indignation in his voice when her father suggested bribing Duncan Keith. Marriage would give her immediate control of her estate, and surely her fortune could purchase the papers from the boy, when in her presence Mr. Herriott delivered them to him. If all efforts failed, she would go down to ruin knowing she had left nothing undone to save her father, and now, at last, she had regained her place in his heart. The price? Her face burned, and she wrung her hands. After to-night's ceremony, could she ever again respect herself? When Mr. Herriott knew, would he despise her? Family portraits on the wall caught her glance. Did the stainless Maurices, and her own young mother, watching from the Celestial City, see all the burden of shame settling down on her shoulders? Would her grandmother's cold, proud blue eyes look "I told you so," or soften in tender pity for "poor Marcia's baby"? Public disgrace over which so many would gloat, to escape such infamy was any price too dear? The price--herself? Three hours later she saw her trunk carried downstairs. When the clock struck eight, she was dressed for her wedding. The gown ordered for the club german was a trailing, ivory _crepe de Chine_, and where lace ruffles met on the corsage she fastened a spray of white lilac from the bouquet Mr. Herriott had sent. No gleam of jewels marred the white perfection of face and figure, but her dilated eyes burned like brown agates when the light smites them. On the dressing-table lay a note for Mrs. Mitchell. "My dear, sweet little mother: The crucial hour came, and you were away. I may have scuttled ship, but I did what seemed best. Some things you cannot understand now, but I know you love me too well to distress me with questions--when I ask you to trust me. Pray for your "BABY."