"I have to get to school early this morning," Horace said, in a harsh voice. He moved towards the door. Lucy also had risen. She now looked altogether tragic. The foolish wistfulness was gone. Instead, claws seemed to bristle all over her tender surface. Suddenly Horace realized that her slender, wiry body was pressed against his own. He was conscious of her soft cheek against his. He felt at once in the grip of a tiger and a woman, and horribly helpless, more helpless than he had ever been in his whole life. What could he say or do? Then suddenly the parlor door opened and Mrs. Ayres, Lucy's mother, stood there. She saw with her stern, melancholy gaze the whole situation. "Lucy!" she said. Lucy started away from Horace, and gazed in a sort of fear and wrath at her mother. "Lucy," said Mrs. Ayres, "go up to your own room." Lucy obeyed. She slunk out of the door and crept weakly up-stairs. Horace and Mrs. Ayres looked at each other. There was a look of doubt in the woman's face. For the first time she was not altogether sure. Perhaps Lucy had been right, after all, in her surmises. Why had Horace called? She finally went straight to the point. "What did you come for, Mr. Allen?" said she. Suddenly Horace thought of the obvious thing to say, the explanation to give. "Miss Fletcher is thinking of coming later to take Miss Lucy for a drive," said he. "And you called to tell her?" said Mrs. Ayres. Horace looked at her. Mrs. Ayres understood. "Miss Fletcher must come with a double-seated carriage so that I can go," said she. "My daughter is very nervous about horses. I never allow her to go to drive without me." She observed, with a sort of bitter sympathy, the look of relief overspread Horace's face. "I will send a telephone message from Mrs. Steele's, next door, so there will be no mistake," she said. "Thank you," replied Horace. His face was burning. Mrs. Ayres went on with a melancholy and tragic calm. "I saw what I saw when I came in," said she. "I have only to inform you that--any doubts which you may have entertained, any fears, are altogether groundless. Everything has been as harmless as--the candy you ate last night." Horace started and stared at her. In truth, he had lain awake until a late hour wondering what might be going to happen to him. "I made it," said Mrs. Ayres. "I attend to everything. I have attended to everything." She gazed at him with a strange, pathetic dignity. "I have no apologies nor excuses to make to you," she said. "I have only this to say, and you can reflect upon it at your leisure. Sometimes, quite often, it may happen that too heavy a burden, a burden which has been gathering weight since the first of creation, is heaped upon too slender shoulders. This burden may bend innocence into guilt and modesty into shamelessness, but there is no more reason for condemnation than in a case of typhoid fever. Any man of good sense and common Christianity should take that view of it."