Courtney read the first page of her script. A sudden wave of remorse, even guilt, swept through him. Back in his mind he pictured her bending studiously, earnestly to the task, her heart in every line she was penning, her dear little brow wrinkled in thought. He could almost visualize the dark, wavy hair, the soft white neck,--as if he were standing behind looking down upon her as she struggled with an obstinate muse,--and the quick, gentle rise and fall of her young breast. He could see her lift her head now and then to stare dreamily at the ceiling, searching there for inspiration. He could see the cramped, tense fingers that gripped the pen as she wrote these precious lines,--with David scratching away laboriously at the opposite end of the table. A strange tenderness entered his soul. Something akin to reverence took possession of him. He had invaded sanctuary. Slowly, almost tenderly, he replaced the manuscript in the drawer beside its bristling mate. Then he resolutely closed the drawer, blew out the candles, and strode swiftly from the room and down the creaking stairs, lighting the way with matches. Even as he convicted himself of wrong, he justified himself as right. The virtuous renunciation balanced, aye, overbalanced,--the account with cupidity. He was saying to himself as he made his way down to the cellar: "It would be downright rotten to take that story of hers, even as a joke,--and I came mighty near to doing it. Thank the Lord, I didn't. Of course, it's piffle,--both of 'em,--but I just COULDN'T take hers away for no other reason than to get a good laugh out of it. Anyhow, my conscience is clear. I put it back where she left it,--and that's the end of it so far as I'm concerned. Damn these cobwebs! Good Lord, I wonder if any of these spiders are poisonous!" Brushing the cobwebs from his face as he ran, he hurried across the cellar and bolted up the steps, out into the brilliant sunlight. He made frantic efforts to remove the disgusting webs from his garments, his eyes darting everywhere in search of the evil insects. Presently he set to work replacing the staple and padlock, inserting the nails in the holes they had left in the rotting board. He did his best to fasten the scantlings down, making a sorry job of it, and then, as he prepared to leave the premises, he was suddenly seized by the uncanny feeling that some one was watching him. His gaze swept the fields, the barn lot, even the high grass that surrounded the house. There was no one in sight, and yet he could FEEL the eyes of an invisible watcher. Up in the garden patch, the scarecrow flapped his empty sleeves. His hat was still tilted jauntily over his absent ear. It was ridiculous to suppose that that uncanny object could see,--yet somehow it seemed to Courtney that it WAS looking at him, looking at him with malicious, accusing eyes.