Then, with one glance back over his shoulder, he moved into the building with much the stealth of a thief. In the living-room he stood and stared about him uncertainly. It was the same room he had been in before, and he remembered its every detail. Suddenly he pushed the evil of those recollections aside and called again-- "Ho, Jess! Ho-o-o!" But the confidence had gone from his tone, and his call suggested an underlying doubt. Again came the echoes. Again they died. Then--yes--there was a sound that had nothing to do with echoes. Again--yes--sure. It was the sound of someone moving in an upper room. He listened attentively, and again his eyes brightened with ready hope. "Jess! Jess!" he called. And this time there was an answer. Without a moment's hesitation, without a second's thought, he dashed through an open doorway and ran up the narrow flight of stairs beyond. At last, at last! His Jessie! He had heard her voice. He had heard the music he had longed for, craved for, prayed for. Was there anything in the world that mattered else? Was there anything in the world that could keep him from her now? No, not now. His love permeated his whole being. There was no thought in his mind of what she had done. There was no room in his simple heart for anything but the love he could not help, and would not have helped if he could. There was no obstacle now, be it mountain or stream, that he could not bridge to reach his Jessie. His love was his life, and his life belonged to--Jessie. He reached the top of the stairs, and a door stood open before him. He did not pause to consider what lay beyond. His instinct guided him. His love led him whither it would, and it led him straight into the presence he desired more than all the world. It led him straight to Jessie. For the fraction of a second he became aware of a vision of womanhood, to him the most perfect in all the world. He saw the well-loved face, now pale and drawn with suffering and remorse. He saw the shadowed eyes full of an affrighted, hunted expression. And, with a cry that bore in its depth all the love of a heart as big as his small body, he ran forward to clasp her in his arms. But Jessie's voice arrested him half-way. It thrilled with hysterical denial, with suffering, regret, horror. And so commanding was it that he had no power to defy its mandate. "No, no," she shrilled. "Keep back--back. You must not come near me. I am not fit for you to touch." "Not fit--?" Scipio stared helplessly at her, his eyes settling uncertainly upon her hands as though he expected to find upon them signs of some work she might have been engaged upon--some work that left her, as she had said, unfit to touch. His comprehension was never quick. His imagination was his weakest point. Then his eyes came to her well-loved face again, and he shook his head. "You--you got me beat, Jess. I--"