"Oh, I see—I see," Ann said, her brows meeting. "There comes another law of nature. I reckon if you feel that way, any argument I’d put up would fall on deaf ears." "I could never accept his love and confidence without telling him all that took place that night, and I’d kill myself rather than have him know," declared the girl. "Oh, _that’s_ the trouble!" Ann exclaimed. "Well, I hope all that will wear away in time. It’s fortunate that you are not loved by a narrow fool, my child. Luke King has seen a lots of the world in his young life." "He has not seen enough of the world to make him overlook a thing of that kind, and you know it," Virginia sighed. "I really believe the higher a man becomes spiritually the higher his ideal of a woman is. I know what he thinks of me now, but I don’t know what he would think if he knew the whole truth. He must never be told that, Mrs. Boyd. God knows I am grateful to you for all you have done, but you must not tell him that." Ann put down her sheet and went to the fireplace, and with the tip of her coarse, gaping shoe she pushed some burning embers under a three-legged pot on the stone hearth. With her tongs she lifted the iron lid and looked at a corn-pone browning within, and then she replaced it. Her brow was deeply wrinkled. "You told me everything that happened that night, if I remember right," she said, tentatively. "In fact, I know you did." Virginia said nothing; her thoughts seemed elsewhere. Leaning the tongs against the fireplace, Ann came forward and bent over her almost excitedly. "Look here, child," she said, "you told me that—that I got there in time. You told me—" "I told you all I thought was necessary for you to understand the situation," said Virginia, her eyes downcast, "but I didn’t tell you all I’d have to tell Luke King—to be his wife." "You say you didn’t." Ann sat down heavily in her chair. "Then be plain with me; what under the sun did you leave out?"