But she had broken down under the strain of fatigue, emotion, and passion greater, at last, than her control. She tried to pull herself together, to control her grief. She would wire Ramsay to-morrow, she would ask his pardon. To her now it was clear as day. Oh, it was clear! But Ralph would never forgive her--never in the world. She heard her husband go over to a little cupboard in the wall where drinks were kept; she heard the snap of the soda-bottle cork like a little shot. There was nothing she could say to her husband. Her passion for Ramsay had protected his son. Hereford would never know anything of the theft or anything of her false suspicion. “Honor and dishonor had been in her hands!” Her husband came back with a refreshing drink for her, and sat down on the arm of the chair, made her swallow it, and then he drew her up with great gentleness. “It is nearly morning,” he said, “and we have a busy day before us. Brace up, old girl!” He kissed her on her hair. Mrs. Hereford looked up at him through her tears. First of all, her husband’s honor had been given to her for keeping. How ruthlessly she had torn it and thrown it away! Hereford put his arm around her. She needed his support, and they went out, side by side, past the music room, where the ghostly shadows gathered in the four corners, only waiting to take possession. _The American Magazine_ THE TERRIBLE CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER BY SAMUEL A. DERIEUX THE TERRIBLE CHARGE AGAINST JEFF POTTER[2] By SAMUEL A. DERIEUX It was Saturday night and raining hard when Frank Blainey pushed through the group of farmers gathered about Jeff Potter and ordered the old man out of the store. There were three indictments according to Frank’s angry arraignment: First, that old Jeff hadn’t spent twenty dollars in the store in the last two years; second, that he tracked in mud and whittled shavings on the floor; and, third, that women didn’t like to come where he was. As for the first, well, old Jeff didn’t have much money to spend, and consequently didn’t spend it; as for the second, having no women at home, and putting in a good share of his time in the river swamp, Jeff wasn’t as careful about mud and shavings as he might have been; as for the third--that started him stuttering so he could hardly get the question out. “W-w-what women?” It was Frank Blainey who flushed now, but he went on. He was a lanky young fellow, his face a bit narrow, his eyes set a trifle close together. Having started the row he was just the kind of man to see it through, especially where Jeff was concerned, for who minded old Jeff Potter? “It don’t make any difference what women!” he cried, face white now, eyes blazing. “I don’t want to argue this case and I don’t propose to. This is my store, and I tell you to get out and stay out. That’s all I’ve got to say, and all I’m going to say!”