The thought of going downstairs to supper and meeting him was intolerable. The sense of what she had confessed to him swept over her in a hot flood of shame. No, she couldn't go down; she couldn't face his eyes again. She'd sit right there, and her mother'd come up, and she'd tell her she had a headache. To meet him was impossible; she just hated him. He was hard and cruel; she'd never see him again; he had degraded her. The whole place became unbearable as she relived the past; she must get away from him, from it all, at any cost, as soon as she could. They'd be sorry when she was gone. And she cried again a little, but these tears relieved her, did her good. She tried to look at the whole position steadily. Barkman would take her away to New York. Marry him?--she didn't want to, but she wouldn't make up her mind now; she'd go away with him if he'd be a real friend to her. Only he mustn't put his arm round her again; she didn't like him to do that. If he wished to be a friend to her, she'd let him; if not, she'd go by herself. He must understand that. Once in New York, she'd meet kind people, live as she wanted to live, and never think of this horrid time. She was all alone; no one in the world to talk to about her trouble--no one. No one cared for her. Her mother loved Jake best; and besides, if she told her anythin', she'd only set down an' cry. She'd write and say she was comfortable; and her father?--he'd get over it. He was kind always, but he never felt much anyway--leastwise, he never showed anythin'. When they got her letter 'twould be all right. That was what she'd do--and so, with her little hands clenched and feverish face, she sat and thought, letting her imagination work. A few mornings later Bancroft came down early. He had slept badly, had been nervous and disturbed by jealous forebodings, and had not won easily to self-control. He had only been in the sitting-room a minute or two when the Elder entered, and stopping in front of him asked sharply: “Hev you seen Loo yet?” “No. Is she down?” “I reckoned you'd know ef she had made out anythin' partikler to do to-day.” “No,” he repeated seriously, the Elder's manner impressing him. “No! she told me nothing, but perhaps she hasn't got up yet.” “She ain't in her room.” “What do you mean?” “You didn't hear buggy-wheels last night--along towards two o'clock?” “No, but--you don't mean to say? Lawyer Barkman!” And Bancroft started up with horror in his look. The Elder stared at him, with rigid face and wild eyes, but as he gradually took in the sincerity of the young man's excitement, he turned, and left the room. To his bedroom he went, and there, after closing the door, fell on his knees. For a long time no word came; with clasped hands and bowed head the old man knelt in silence. Sobs shook his frame, but no tears fell. At length broken sentences dropped heavily from his half-conscious lips: