A wailing cry from the wind seemed to echo the pain in his voice. The girl did not answer. Refusing both the light and shelter he offered her, she stepped resolutely forth into the blackness of the night. Helplessly he watched her go, the lantern's rays reflecting her white gown. "I shan't bother you again, Mr. Howe," she called bitterly. Martin made no reply but raised the lantern higher that it might brighten the rough path. Unheeding him, the girl stumbled through the darkness, the rain beating down upon her. As she neared the house a faint glow flickered through the shrubbery, making it evident that her aunt had already arrived home. Nervously she mounted the porch and turned to look behind her. At the foot of the drive stood Martin, the lantern high in his hands. Now that Lucy was safely within the shelter of her own domain, her sense of humor overcame her, and with an irresistible desire to torment him, she called mischievously from her vantage ground on the veranda: "Thank you so much for bringing me home, Mr. Howe. Can't I persuade you to come in?" There was a smothered exclamation of wrath in the distance, and she saw a gleam of light precipitate itself hastily into the road, where, for a moment, it flashed along the tree trunks, then disappeared. Lucy laughed. Ellen was in the kitchen when she entered. "Where on earth have you been?" she demanded. "I should 'a' thought you might 'a' come back in time to start the fire up an' get supper. It's awful late. Was it Tony you was talkin' to outside?" "No." "It warn't?" she turned a hawklike glance on her niece. "Who was it?" she asked inquisitively. "Mr. Howe." "Mr. Ho---- Not _Martin_ Howe!" Lucy nodded. "Yes." "Martin Howe here--_on my land_! What was he doin'?" "He wasn't on your land," Lucy said. "He left me at the gate. He was seeing me home. I've been there to supper." "What!" Never had the girl heard so many sensations crowded into one word. There was surprise, unbelief, scorn, anger. But anger predominated. "An' how long, pray tell me, have you been goin' backwards an' forrads to the Howes, an' consortin' with their brother?" "Only to-night." Ellen looked at her niece as if, had she dared, she would have torn her in pieces. "I s'pose it never entered your head it was a mean advantage for you to take when I was gone," she said shrilly. "You wouldn't 'a' dared do it if I'd been here." "I'm not so sure." The fearless response was infuriating to Ellen. "Well, I'll tell you one thing," she shouted, bringing her clenched hand down on the table with such force that every dish rattled. "You ain't to repeat this night's performance! If you ain't got pride enough not to go hob-nobbin' with my enemies, I'll forbid it for good an' all--forbid it, do you hear? I ain't a-goin'----" Something in the quiet dignity of the girl before her arrested her tongue. Her eye traveled over the white, rain-drenched figure. Then the corners of her mouth twitched and curved upward.