A revulsion took place within her which, for a few moments, imbued her with strength. Upon a piece of blank paper she wrote the words, "I am innocent, as Heaven is my judge. God bless you for your kindness to me--Emilia Braham." Dark as it was she managed to form the letters fairly well, and she laid the paper upon the dressing-table. Then despair overtook her again. What had Mrs. Seaton said? "The whole town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face she will meet with a proper reception." But she would not give her revilers the opportunity of publicly hounding her down. With stealthy steps she crept into the passage. No one was near. Softly she glided to the door. The next moment she was in the street, flying she knew not whither. All that she was conscious of was that the direction she was taking led her away from the town. It was her wish; no person who knew her must ever look upon her face again. First solitude, then death--that was her prayer. She reached the outskirts of the town and plunged into a wood. A part of her desire was accomplished. In her flight no one had recognized or noticed her, and now she was alone with her shame and her despair. For the consciousness of her innocence did not sustain her. Judgment had been pronounced; she was condemned. Meanwhile the maiden ladies, believing that Emilia was asleep, sat in their room overcome with grief. The revelation which Mrs. Seaton had made to them was a great shock to these simple ladies, who were almost as ignorant of the world's bad ways and of the worst side of human nature as Emilia herself. They did not hear the young girl's footfall in the passage, and Emilia had made no noise in opening the street door, which she left open, fearing that the sound of its closing would betray her. They were silent for many minutes after Emilia's departure, and when they spoke it was in whispers. "It is a frightful story," said the younger lady. "Can it be true?" Her sister did not reply immediately; she was thinking of the sweet and innocent face of the hapless girl, and of the impossibility that it could be a mask to depravity. Presently she clasped her sister's hand and said: "We will not judge, dear, till we hear what she has to say." "You are always right," said the younger sister, and both experienced a feeling of relief. "Let us go to her; she may be awake." They stole into the adjoining room, and one said gently, "Are you awake?" Then, presently, "We do not wish to disturb you." They listened in the darkness and heard no sound of breathing. "I will get a candle," whispered the elder sister. Returning with it they looked around in alarm. "She is gone! Poor child, poor child! She must have heard what the lady said, and would not wait to be thrust forth. Oh, sister, is it innocence or guilt?"