so weary and wan, and she knows that for the sake of the man she loves she is willing to endure even the shame of his pity. The battle was over and some sort of victory at least she had won. An eager impatience possessed her to go to him at once. “I wish it were to-morrow now, this very minute.” She rose and looked out into the night. There was neither moon nor stars and a storm was brewing, but she knew she could find her way in the dark. Quietly and with a great peace in her heart she bathed her swollen face, changed her dress to one fresh from the ironing board--pale blue it was with a dainty vine running through it--threw a wrap about her and went out to her mother. “I am going up to the Waring-Gaunts', Mother. They might need me,” she said in a voice of such serene control that her mother only answered, “Yes, dear, Larry will go with you. He will soon be in.” “There is no need, Mother, I am not afraid.” Her mother made no answer but came to her and with a display of tenderness unusual between them put her arms about her and kissed her. “Good-night, then, darling; I am sure you will do them good.” The night was gusty and black, but Kathleen had no fear. The road was known to her, and under the impulse of the purpose that possessed her she made nothing of the darkness nor of the approaching storm. She hurried down the lane toward the main trail, refusing to discuss with herself the possible consequence of what she was doing. Nor did she know just what situation she might find at the Waring-Gaunts'. They would doubtless be surprised to see her. They might not need her help at all. She might be going upon a fool's errand, but all these suppositions and forebodings she brushed aside. She was bent upon an errand of simple kindness and help. If she found she was not needed she could return home and no harm done. Receiving no response to her knock, she went quietly into the living room. A lamp burned low upon the table. There was no one to be seen. Upstairs a child was wailing and the mother's voice could be heard soothing the little one to sleep. From a bedroom, of which the door stood open, a voice called. The girl's heart stood still. It was Jack's voice, and he was calling for his sister. She ran upstairs to the children's room. “He is calling for you,” she said to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt without preliminary greeting. “Let me take Doris.” But Doris set up a wail of such acute dismay that the distracted mother said, “Could you just step in and see what is wanted? Jack has been in bed for two days. We have been unable to get a nurse anywhere, and tonight both little girls are ill. I am so thankful you came over. Indeed, I was about to send for one of you. Just run down and see what Jack wants. I hope you don't mind. I shall be down presently when Doris goes to sleep.” “I am not going to sleep, Mamma,” answered Doris emphatically. “I am going to keep awake, for if I go to sleep I know you will go away.”