They reached the house. Lights were still burning in the office, and when they entered they found the District Committee sitting about the red stove, still working out the morrow's plans. Giotto was there, Sally Heffer, and Jacob Izon, and others, tired, pale, and huddled, but still toiling wearily with one another. As Joe and Myra came in they looked up, and Sally rose. "Is she--" she began, and then spoke angrily, "I can see she's been held." Joe smiled sadly. "Sent to the workhouse for five days." Exclamations of indignation arose. The committee could not believe it. "I wish," cried impetuous Sally, "that magistrate were my husband. I'd throw a flatiron at his head and put some castor-oil in his soup!" Joe laughed a little. He looked at his watch, and then at Myra. "Myra," he said, gently, "it's two o'clock--too late to go home. You must sleep with mother." Myra spoke softly. "No--I can get home all right." He took her by the arm. "Myra," he leaned over, "do just this one thing for me." "I will!" she breathed. He led her in through his room, and knocked softly. "Mother!" "Yes," came a clear, wide-awake voice. "I'm awake, Joe." "Here's Myra. May she stay with you?" "Good!" Myra went in, but turned. "Joe," she said, tremulously, "you're not going to stay up with that committee?" "They need me, Myra." "But, Joe," her voice broke--"this is too much of a good thing--" Joe's mother interrupted her. "Better leave the boy alone, Myra--to-night, anyway." Joe laughed. "I'll try to cut it short! Sweet dreams, ladies!" For long they heard his voice mingled with the others, as they lay side by side in the black darkness. But Myra was glad to be near him, glad to share his invisible presence. After she had told Joe's mother about Rhona, the two, unable to sleep, talked quietly for some time. Drawn together by their love for Joe--and Joe's mother was quick in divining--they felt as if they knew each other intimately, though they had met for the first time that afternoon, when Myra, having reported Rhona's arrest to Joe, groped her way blindly to the rear kitchen and stood, trying not to sob, before the elder woman. She had asked: "Are you Mrs. Blaine?" and had gone on. "I'm Myra--Myra Craig. Joe and I used to know each other." Whereupon Joe's mother, remembering something Joe had said of writing to a Myra Craig in the country, suddenly understood. There was a swift, "What! You and he--?" a sob from Myra, and the two were in each other's arms. Then followed supper and a quiet evening. And now in the darkness they lay and talked. "I've been worrying about Joe," Mrs. Blaine mused, softly. "Why?" "Can't you see why?" "He looks badly," Myra sighed. "Joe," said his mother, quietly, "is killing himself. He doesn't listen to me, and I don't want to interfere too much." "Isn't there anything to be done?" There was a silence and then Joe's mother spoke in a strange personal voice. "What if _you_ could do something."