“Hush, mother, don't!” Cynthia cried. They had now reached the porch. Porter had retired, and so they passed on unnoticed to Mrs. Porter's room. Cynthia helped her mother undress and get into the bed, and then she went to her own room and sat down, irresolutely, at her table. She leaned her head on her crossed arms and remained quite still. She was very tired in brain and body, and presently dropped to sleep. She slept for about two hours. Suddenly she waked with a start. The clock in the sitting-room was striking ten. Nelson would be at the grape-arbor soon, she told herself with a shudder. Perhaps he was already there, and too cautious to whistle as on former meetings. She stood up, tiptoed to the closet, and opened the door. She uncovered the hidden valise and lifted it out into the light. Then a recollection of her mother's strange condition struck her like a blow in the face, and, standing in the centre of the room, she sighed. Just then she heard the tread of bare feet in the hall, and a low-mumbled monologue. Her heart stood still, for she recognized her mother's voice. Going softly to the door, she peered out, and there, in a thin, white dress, stood Mrs. Porter, Nathan's double-barrelled shot-gun clutched in her hand, her long hair hanging loose on her back. The old woman's face was averted, and she seemed unaware of her daughter's presence. “Lord, my God, pardon me for this last act,” she was praying. “It may be a sin in Thy sight for a tortured person to seek escape from trouble by this course, but I can't stand it any longer.” “Mother, what is this?” Cynthia darted out into the hall and snatched the gun from her mother's hands. For an instant Mrs. Porter stood staring at her daughter, and then, as if to escape her glance, she turned and went slowly into Cynthia's room. “Sh!” she said; “don't wake your pa.” And, seeing Cynthia's lamp burning low, she blew down the chimney and put it out. The room was now dark save for the moonlight that struggled in at the windows on each side of the drawn shades. “Mother, you've got to tell me,” Cynthia demanded, as she leaned the cumbersome weapon against the wall and groped towards the still, white figure; “what were you going to do with that gun?” Mrs. Porter said nothing, but moved backward to Cynthia's bed and, with a groan, sat down on it. “Mother”--Cynthia leaned over her, a horrible fear gripping her heart-cords--“what were you about to do?” “I don't know as I am obliged to tell you or anybody,” Mrs. Porter said, doggedly. “Mother”--Cynthia sat down by the old woman and put her arm about the gaunt figure--“what were you going to do?” “I was going to get out of my trouble, if you _will_ know,” Mrs. Porter said, looking her daughter defiantly in the face. “Your trouble, mother?”