"Say, wait a minute. The poor thing! Wanderin’ about in the night,—an’ her light-headed—away from your pertectin’ love an’ care! Ain’t it awful! My husban’ an’ me’ll get up, an’ be dressed in no time, for we’d like to help her, if we can, poor creature! In the meantime, seein’ you ain’t found her here, I s’pose you’ll be goin’ further. Out in her night-clo’es! My! I wonder—— Say, Sam—do _you_ see somethin’ white flitterin’ along towards the south—down the valley road d’rection? Seems to me _I_ do!" Sam thought maybe he did. Buller kicked a heel into his horse. "G’long! I’m off down the valley road. I bet ’tis her. I’ll have her yet, the d—the poor dear!" The instant he was gone, Martha dragged Sam into the house. "Quick! Dress you! An’ go down get the auta. I have the girl hid in the entry closet. I’m goin’ to take her out o’ harm’s way, which is that brute beast’s." "But, Martha——" remonstrated Sam. "Sam Slawson, do as I tell you! Or you’ll have to _shove_ us into Burbank in your present gob, which, believe _me_, it ain’t bewitchin’. You can take it from me, lad, I’m goin’ to catch that north-bound express that leaves Burbank at one o’clock this night, which, if we don’t make it, there ain’t another till to-morra mornin’. So we _got_ to make it, or I’ll know the reason why!" Impelled by a motive power so irresistible, Sam dressed and went about his business without venturing another word. Martha clothed herself in the brief intervals when she was not attending Ellen Hinckley, giving her bread to eat, milk to sip, enveloping her in garments gathered from everywhere, anywhere, a conglomerate assortment that would have been grotesque if it had not been touching. "No one’ll mind your looks," Martha reassured her. "Just you sit tight, an’ keep your own counsel, an’ not a dog’ll bark after you. Ma’s veil tied down over Cora’s hat is quite stylish, an’, be this an’ be that, you’ve got as good a motorin’ costume as any. They all look like Sam Hill. So now, I guess, we might be movin’!" "It’s a crazy scheme," Sam whispered in his wife’s ear, as she bent to him to deliver last instructions, while he was cranking up. "Suppose a tire bursts?" "It ain’t goin’ to," she assured him with perfect confidence. Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even Martha’s garrulous tongue was stilled. The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar, remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable. The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car, the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security under Mrs. Slawson’s protecting wing. Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters profile toward her. "I hear something back of us. Can you see?"