"Oh, no, it won't," Coats said, through tight lips. "It may drive Edward mad, though. I shall settle my account with both of them ... when I'm ready.... Where did you say Ann had gone?" "Rachel said she had gone down to the woods. She said Ann was dressed up--I thought maybe she had gone away with Garvin--it's what he's been askin' her to do." "Not in broad daylight," Coats said, in the same cutting way. "His kind do their work at night.... She'll come back--and with nothing but misery before her.... If Marian had only lived, the child might have been saved--" At thought of his wife, he dropped into huskiness and restless motion. "Come to the house," he said thickly. "We can't stand here doing nothing." Sue followed him as he strode along. "Go by the front way," she begged. "Rachel mustn't see.... And father; Coats, you mustn't tell father--it'll kill him--it'll bring on a stroke, Coats." Coats stopped. He had regained his composure. "Keep calm," he said. "I mean to keep calm. We've faced trouble together before, Sue--we're neither of us going to go mad." "I'd rather have died than have this happen." "I know you would. You're all Penniman, Sue--there're some of us mongrel, but not you." They went in by the front porch. "Bring me the letters," Coats said, in the same quiet way. Sue went to Ann's room and gathered them up from the bed where they lay scattered, as she had left them when she had hurried to find Ann. She brought, also, the sheet of paper that had led her to discovery, placed them all in Coats' hands. Coats read them, Ann's few blotted sentences first. It was Ann's struggle over her letter to Garvin, a beginning put aside because it was so ill-written and blotted: "DEAR GARVIN: "If I could endure any longer without telling you, I'd not write this, but I can't. You have asked me all along in your letters why I have written so anxiously, and I have told you that I wasn't happy because I was worried about everything, but I didn't tell you the real reason."