As she hurried through the streets, after leaving the shop, and gained the corner leading to the shore road, she glanced up and down, fearing to see the sturdy figure with the basket. But there was no one in sight whom she knew. At this discovery she slackened her steps and looked around more quietly. When she reached the bend in the road, a flash of light from an open door in a cabin near by gave her a momentary glimpse of a housewife bending over a stove and a man putting a dinner-pail on the kitchen table. Then all was dark again. It was but a momentary glimpse of a happiness the possibility of which in her own life she had wrecked, but it sent the blood tingling to her face. She stopped, steadying herself by the stone wall, then she walked on. When she passed into the black shadows of the overhanging willows, a man stepped from behind a tree-trunk. “Aren’t you rather late this evening?” he asked. Betty stood still, the light of the street lamp full on her face. The abruptness of the sound startled her. “Oh, you needn’t be afraid; I’m not going to hurt you.” The girl peered into the gloom. She thought the voice was familiar, though she was not sure. She could distinguish only a shadowy face. “What makes you so skittish, anyhow?” the man asked again,—in a lower tone this time. “You didn’t use to be so. I thought maybe you might like to drive over to Medford and see the show to-night.” Betty made no answer, but she took a step nearer to him, trying to identify him. She was not afraid; only curious. Then all at once it occurred to her that it could be for no good purpose he had stopped her. None of the men had spoken to her in the street, even in the daytime, since her return home. “Please let me pass,” she said quietly and firmly. “Oh, you needn’t be in a hurry. We’ve got all night. Come along, now, won’t you? You used to like me once, before you shook the old man.” Betty knew him now! The terror of her position overcame her; a deathly faintness seized her. She saw it all; she knew why this man dared. She realized the loneliness and desolation of her position, poor child that she was. Every cabin near her filled with warmth and cheer and comfort, and she friendless and alone! Not a woman near but had the strong arm of husband or brother to help and defend her. The very boats in the harbor, with their beacon-lights aloft, protected and safe. Only she in danger; only she unguarded, waylaid, open to insult, even by a man like this. She stood shivering, looking into his cowardly face. Then rousing herself to her peril, she sprang toward the road. In an instant the man had seized her wrist. She felt his hot breath on her face. “Oh, come now, none of that! Say, why ain’t I as good as Bill Lacey? Give me a kiss.” “Let me go! _Let me go!_ How dare you!” she cried, struggling in his grasp. When she found his strength gaining on her, she screamed.