“Yes, father,” she returned, and a certain vibration of restrained feeling was perceptible in her voice, “it was I. I am sorry I disturbed you. Were you asleep?” All was dark below, and no person could be seen, but again came the man’s voice. “What were you doing, Anna?” was the question. “Only putting away—” here the girl faltered and stopped speaking. The candle in her hand shook, and threw a strange, wavering shadow of her shape upon the long, rough timbers of the wall. The roof was so low where she stood that of necessity her head was bent sharply forward. The outline of her shoulders was meagre and angular; her arms and body had neither the grace of a girl nor the curves of a woman; they were simply lean and long. There was something of loftiness, and even of beauty, in the face, but the cheeks were hollow, the lines all lacking in softness. The _ensemble_ was grave and strenuous for a girl of eighteen. She began again. “I was nailing up that box of books, you remember. I thought now, you know, I ought to do it.” Something like a groan seemed to float up from the darkness below. There was no other reply for a moment, and then the father’s voice said slowly:— “To take back later such an action is a greater violation of the moral nature than to avoid performing it. If it has been given you as duty, it is well done, but be very sure.” A smile, brooding, and even sad, altered the girl’s face as she reflected for a little. “I am very sure,” she said softly, but without hesitation. “Then, good night. Sleep, now. Let to-morrow take thought for the things of itself, Anna.” “Good night, father.” The little lingering of her voice on the last word gave to it the force of a term of endearment, which it would not have occurred to Anna Mallison at that time to add. A door closed below, presently, and the house was still. The garret extended over the entire house, and its unlighted spaces seemed to stretch indefinitely on all sides from the little circle of light shed by the one candle. The place was wholly open, save that at the front gable, below the highest point in the peak of the roof, a partition of planed but unpainted boards enclosed a small chamber. The narrow door of it stood open. As Anna approached this door she cast her glance to a far, dim corner, where in stiff order a wooden box of moderate size stood upon a chest. She crossed to the place, passed her hand over the lid of this box, satisfied herself that it was firmly and evenly fastened, and then gathered up some nails and a hammer, which she put away on the ledge formed by a square, projecting rafter. This accomplished, she came back and entered the chamber, which was sparely enough furnished, undressed, put out her candle, and sat down in the open gable window.