"I won't stand it," she said, in a whisper. "She _had_ to live with him, but I don't." That resolution was made. All that remained was to hit upon the means to carry it out. She would leave her home and her father, but how? And how could she make it certain that he could not follow her and drag her back? For drag her back he would, she knew. She must have help; she must have a place to go. Arrangements must be made outside that house for her reception, and she could not go out to make them--and she was penniless! "_He'd_ help me," she said, suddenly. "He's got to." The _he_ was Potter Waite. It was not with love that she turned to Potter, for she did not love him. She was not a girl given to sudden, unstable infatuations for young men. But she liked him, she trusted him. Events had coupled them in a manner which compelled her to think of him as she thought of no other young man.... She would ask him to help, to find some way, to devise some expedient. Potter was only a means to an end in this affair--he was not the end. She did not plan to elope with this young man; indeed, that idea never entered her hot little head. She went to her desk and wrote: "DEAR POTTER,--I can't stand it any longer. I sha'n't live another day with my father. He's a savage and I'm afraid of him." She was not in the least afraid of him, but feminine instinct told her this would be an appealing touch. Her hand traveled to the arm her father had clutched and she became conscious that it pained her. She stood up and removed her waist to examine the arm. It was bruised, swollen, rapidly blackening, and the marks of his ruthless fingers were plain. She sat down to write again. "My arm," she wrote, "is nearly wrenched off, and you can see the mark of every one of his fingers on it. I'm locked in my room. Won't you help me get away? My room is on the lake side of the house, the corner with the tower. If you'll help me, come to-morrow night about ten, and be careful. I'll be watching out of my window for you, and I'll be all ready. I won't stand it another day." She signed this, sealed it, and affixed a stamp. Then she replaced her waist and concealed the note in her bosom. "He'll have sense enough to know what to do." she told herself. She tried to read, but could not, and hurled the book across the room angrily. She could do nothing but brood and toy with her anger, keeping it alive and pouring fuel upon its flames. Again she occupied the window-seat and stared out at the wintry landscape.