"Ask her," said I, "not to go yet for a few days. Press it as a favour to me." Then, on second thought, I sat down and wrote Mrs. Falchion a note, hinting that there were grave reasons why she should stay a little longer: things connected with her own happiness. Truth is, I had received a note that morning which had excited me. It referred to Mrs. Falchion. For I was an arch-plotter--or had been. I received a note in reply which said that she would do as I wished. Meanwhile I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of some one. That night a letter came to Roscoe. After reading it shrinkingly he handed it to me. It said briefly: I'm not sorry I did it, but I'm glad I hevn't killed you. I was drunk and mad. If I hadn't hurt you, I'd never hev forgive myself. I reckon now, there's no need to do any forgivin' either side. We're square--though maybe you didn't kill her after all. Mrs. Falchion says you didn't. But you hurt her. Well, I've hurt you. And you will never hear no more of Phil's pal from Danger Mountain. Immediately after sunset of this night, a storm swept suddenly down the mountains, and prevented Ruth and her father from going to Viking. I left them talking to Roscoe, he wearing such a look on his face as I like to remember now, free from distress of mind--so much more painful than distress of body. As I was leaving the room, I looked back and saw Ruth sitting on a stool beside Roscoe's chair, holding the unmaimed hand in hers; the father's face shining with pleasure and pride. Before I went out, I turned again to look at them, and, as I did so, my eye fell on the window against which the wind and rain were beating. And through the wet there appeared a face, shocking in its paleness and misery--the face of Mrs. Falchion. Only for an instant, and then it was gone. I opened the door and went out upon the verandah. As I did so, there was a flash of lightning, and in that flash a figure hurried by me. One moment, and there was another flash; and I saw the figure in the beating rain, making toward the precipice. Then I heard a cry, not loud, but full of entreaty and sorrow. I moved quickly toward it. In another white gleam I saw Justine with her arms about the figure, holding it back from the abyss. She said with incredible pleading: "No, no, madame, not that! It is wicked--wicked." I came and stood beside them. The figure sank upon the ground and buried a pitiful face in the wet grass. Justine leaned over her. She sobbed as one whose harvest of the past is all tears. Nothing human could comfort her yet. I think she did not know that I was there. Justine lifted her face to me, appealing. I turned and stole silently away. CHAPTER XXI IN PORT