The door closed behind him. The room was in utter darkness again. Roxie, her hot eyes filling, fumbled her way up the stairs and into her attic chamber. She lighted her lamp and began to roll up a few things into a bundle; stockings, shoes, a nightgown--anything she happened to see. This gave a definiteness to Bud’s proposal that terrified her anew. He was going to take her up there before she was married. To-morrow, he had said, they would go to the minister’s--but what of to-night? She grew hot and cold. She rose from the bureau drawer in which she was fumbling and stood upright--an animal about to spring. At sight of herself in the mirror, she grew flaming red with shame. She blew out the lamp and, crumbling, knelt by her bed as she did every night. She said her prayer--the only one she knew: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” She had known this from childhood and it had always brought her comfort. But it was not adequate for now. In superstitious awe of what she was doing--half fearing it was blasphemy--she added a line of her own: “Lord! Lord, please to let me die afore I wake.” If at that moment she had felt herself suddenly swooning off into death, she would not have been greatly surprised. She waited a minute expectantly, but nothing happened. It was life she must face, not death. Suddenly--as though in answer to her prayer--she thought of a long, steel-bladed knife she used in the kitchen. She could take that with her. It would give her something to fight through this night with. It would save her until to-morrow, and that was all she asked. It would save her to herself, but not to the world. She realized that. No one would believe, with the opportunity for escape she now had, she went with Bud other than voluntarily. Her mother would not believe; the Mission would not believe; Miss Wilmer would not believe--because never, never, never could she tell why she did this thing. Mr. Allston himself might not believe. He had warned her; had offered his protection. If, in the face of that, she went, he must think it was because she chose to go. “Lord,” she repeated, “dear, good, kind Lord--please to take my soul right away. I wanter be good, Lord. Please to take it.” If poignant earnestness can wing a prayer straight to God, that prayer sped like an arrow. And yet if He heard, He gave no evidence of it. Roxie breathed on, her white, girlish bosom heaving. The knife would save her to herself, but not to the others. Weak-kneed and dazed, she rose to her feet again. Time was passing and Bud was waiting. She had promised to be back in half an hour and the period of grace might have passed already. In the grip of a new fear akin to panic, she re-lighted her lamp. God was going to make her go.