Hayward held Helen in his arms while he inventoried the contents in the uncertain light, but at her first movement to free herself from his embrace he gently seated her on the little table and stood beside her at the end of it. She was faint with horror and fright and, closing her eyes, sank back against the wall for support: while the wind-driven torrent howled and surged past the door and the fierce but unspeaking lightning lit up the awful night.... Helen was getting some sort of grip on her nerves again when, turning toward the door, in the pallid light she had a vision of the ghastly face lying in the road below them. She shuddered—the faintness was overmastering—and toppled unconscious against her husband’s arm. He caught her tenderly, not knowing she had lost consciousness, and, putting his arm around her, drew her softly and closely to himself. For a long time he stood thus in silence, fearing that speech might break the spell. At last he spoke to her, but she did not answer. He ascribed her silence to fright, and with gentle and reassuring words essayed to compose her fears. He took note of her failure to speak to him: but she was submissive to his caresses, and he was well content with that. At her non-resistance he became more affectionate in his tendernesses, and was lost in the ecstasy of holding her to his heart. Gone—far removed—from him was the thought of the storm-riven night. An end, he exulted, to nightmares in which she was fleeing from him. His wife was in his arms at last! The silent modesty with which she had committed herself to him was eloquent of her heart’s love and faithfulness:—and his pulses sang with joy despite the tragedy that had befallen. The wind and rain were slackening, but the lightning played on. With a sigh and shiver Helen stirred, and pushed feebly away. "Where am I? Where are we?" she asked confusedly. "About two miles and a half from the Lake Drive," Hayward answered, "about four miles from home." "But what are we doing here? How did we get here?" Hayward started. In heaven’s name, her mind was not unsettled! "The wreck—I carried you in here out of the storm." "Oh—yes,—now I remember," Helen said, leaning back against the wall and putting her hands before her eyes as if to shut out memory. In a flash Hayward was in the clutch of the old terror. "She did not know, then," he thought. "She was unconscious, and did not give herself to me." Again he was on the rack, all his doubts and fears and jealousies a-surge, but maddened and fired by the memory, the lingering perfume, of her smooth cheek and warm lips. "How long must we stay here?" Helen asked, starting up. "Until the storm is over, at the least. They may send after us when we do not arrive on time. I cannot leave you here, or I would go after help now." "No! you must not leave me here! We will wait till help comes or until—I can go with you. Do you think it will be long?"