The door gave into the sitting-room, empty of occupants and unlit. But the Colonel’s landlady had not been advised of his change of plans, and in expectation of his return a fire burned in the grate and cast a warm, cheering light over the simple furnishings and the arm-chair drawn up in front of it. June crept in and shut the door. She fell into the arm-chair with her hands over her face and sat limp and motionless in the firelight. The noise of the town came dulled to her ears. She had escaped from Jerry and the pursuing echo of his name. A half-hour later the Colonel found her there. After a hurried search for her through the town he had been seized by the hope that she might have sought shelter with him. As the opening of the door fell on her ear she raised her head and looked up. He saw her in the firelight, all dark in the half-lit room, save for her white face and hands. An exclamation of passionate relief broke from him, and as she rose and ran to him he held out his arms and clasped her. They said nothing for a moment, clinging mutely together, her face buried in his shoulders, his hand pressing her head against his heart. Then she drew herself away from him and tried to tell him the story in a series of broken sentences, but he silenced her and put her back in the chair. “Wait till to-morrow,” he said, kneeling down beside her to stir up the fire into a redder blaze. “You can tell it all to-morrow. And, anyway, there’s no necessity to tell it. I know it now.” “Do you know what I was going to do--nearly did?” “Yes, all about it. I got your letter.” “Do you despise me?” she said faintly. “No,” he answered. The fire began to burn brightly. They sat for a moment looking into it; then leaning toward him over the arm of the chair, she said, almost in a whisper, “Where’s Jerry?” “Jerry?” he answered with a sudden slowness of utterance. “Jerry? Jerry’s somewhere.” “As I came along everybody seemed to be talking of him. I heard his name all along the street. It seemed as if it was following me. I’m afraid of Jerry.” “You needn’t be any more. You won’t see him again. There’s--he’s--I’ll tell you about that to-morrow, too.” “Will you let me stay with you?” she continued. “Will you let me live here, somewhere near you? Will you take care of me?” He took her hand and pressed it, then held it out, cold and trembling, to the blaze, nodding his answer without looking at her. “I have nowhere else to go. I don’t know where my father is. Uncle Jim, I can’t live up in the Murchison mansion alone. It’s full of ghosts and memories. I’m afraid of it. I’m afraid of Jerry. I’m afraid of myself.” “You needn’t be afraid any more. I’m going to take care of you now. We’ll get some rooms for you back here with the landlady, and by and by we’ll get something better. You’re never going back to the Murchison mansion.” “I was so close to dreadful things there,” she murmured. “It was so--”