“What is it?” she asked. “What is the matter?” “Nothing,” I answered, with a sigh of relief. “It is all right. We shall be there soon.” “But what is the matter? Why are you--let me walk, please.” “You had better stay as you are. You are almost home.” “But why are you carrying me? What is the matter?” “You--you fainted, I think. The lightning--” “Oh yes, I remember. Did I faint? How ridiculous! Please let me walk now. I am all right. Really I am.” “But I think--” “Please. I insist.” I set her gently on her feet. She staggered a little, but she was plucky and, after a moment, was able to stand and walk, though slowly. “You are sure you can manage it?” I asked. “Of course! But why did I faint? I never did such a thing before in my life.” “That flash was close to us. It struck the big willow by the brook.” “Did it! As near as that?” “Yes. Don't try to talk.” “But I am all right . . . I am not hurt at all. Are we almost home?” “Yes. Those are the lights of your house ahead there.” We moved on more rapidly. As we turned in at the Colton walk she said, “Why; it has stopped raining.” It had, though I had not noticed it. The flash which smashed the willow had been the accompaniment of what Lute would call the “clearing-up shower.” The storm was really over. We stepped up on the portico of the big house and I rang the bell. The butler opened the door. His face, as he saw the pair of dripping, bedraggled outcasts before him, was worth looking at. He was shocked out of his dignity. “Why! Why, Miss Mabel!” he stammered, with almost human agitation. “What--” A voice, a petulant female voice, called from the head of the stairs. “Johnson,” it quavered, “who is it? Mabel, is that you?” The library door flew open and Mr. Colton himself appeared. “Eh? What?” he exclaimed. “By George! Mabel, where have you been? I have been raising heaven and earth to locate you. The 'phone seems to be out of order and--Great Scott, girl! you're wet through. Jenkins, what--? Hey? Why, it isn't Jenkins!” The fact that his daughter's escort was not the coachman had just dawned upon him. He stared at me in irate bewilderment. Before he could ask a question or his daughter could speak or explain there came a little shriek from the stairs, a rustle of silken skirts, and a plump, white-faced woman in an elaborate house gown rushed across the hall with both white arms outstretched. “Mabel!” she cried, “where HAVE you been. You poor child! I have been almost beside myself, and--” Miss Colton laughingly avoided the rush. “Take care, Mother,” she warned. “I am very wet.” “Wet? Why! you're absolutely drenched! Jenkins--Mabel, where is Jenkins? And who is this--er--person?” I thought it quite time for me to withdraw. “Good night, Miss Colton,” I said, and stepped toward the door. But “Big Jim” roared my name. “It's that--it's Paine!” he exclaimed. “Here! what does this mean, anyway?”