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. XX Ann had just closed her gate, and was turning towards her door, when she heard a sound on the porch, and a man stepped down into the yard. It was Luke King. "Why, hello, Aunt Ann!" he cried out, cheerily. "Been driving hogs out of your field I’ll bet. You need me here with my dog Pomp, who used to be such a dandy at that job." "Oh, it’s you, Luke!" Ann cried, trying to collect herself, after the start he had given her.