"Oh, hush, hush!" Rue cried, with a shiver. "Hush, hush! I must go now!" "You shall not; I will never leave you. Rue, dear, there are two little children lying there in their bed, silently calling you to come to them and avoid this sin. Sister--mother--wife, will you leave them for that cruel, reckless man?" "Oh, hush!" cried Rue, struggling with her fiercely. "You do not know. You cannot tell. He's waiting for me, and I must--I will go." "Never while I have breath," Sage panted, and then she uttered a shriek of affright, for Rue made an effort to escape her, running for some distance, and then falling heavily in the snow. This was her last struggle, for as Sage overtook her, the weak woman rose, and, trembling and moaning, to herself, she allowed her sister to lead her back towards the farm. How Sage managed to get her sister along she never afterwards knew, but by degrees she did, and up to her room unheard, hiding away all traces of the snowy cloaks and boots before summoning Mrs Portlock to her help, for as soon as Rue reached the bedroom she threw herself upon her knees by her sleeping children, moaning, sobbing, speaking incoherently, and passing from one terrible hysterical fit into another that seemed worse. "Go and tell uncle she's better now," said Mrs Portlock, at last; "I can hear him walking up and down like a wild beast. There, there, now, my child," she said soothingly to Rue, "try and be calm." Sage went down to find the Churchwarden buttoned up and with the old horn lanthorn lit, ready to walk over to the town and fetch Doctor Vinnicombe. "I'm afraid it's no use to put a horse to, my dear," he said; "the snow's drifting tremendously." "I don't think you need go, uncle," said Sage, and here she stopped short and clung to him, for there was a sharp knocking at the front door, and in her confused, excited state Sage's heart sank, for she felt that it was Frank Mallow grown impatient, and come to insist upon Rue keeping her word. "There, there, my pretty, don't you turn silly too," said the Churchwarden. "By jingo, what a night!" he cried, as the outer door was opened, and a rush of snow-laden wind swept into the hall and dashed open the big parlour door. The sound of a rough voice gave Sage relief, for it was John Berry who had arrived. The relief was but momentary, for Sage's conscience said that the husband had gained some inkling of the intended flight, and had come to stop it. Just then the broad-shouldered, red-faced farmer entered the room. "How are ye?" he cried in a bluff tone that set Sage's heart at rest for the moment. "I scarcely thought the mare would have got me through it," he continued. "It's a strange rough night, master, and if you've any sheep out, I'd have 'em seen to. Eh? what? My darling ill?" he cried, as he heard the Churchwarden's announcement. "Then thank the Lord I did come."