Then suddenly the policeman drew the small lantern he had carried from beneath his cape and shot the slide. A cube of clear, steady light cut through the inky wall in front of them. For a second they all stopped, the man sending the cylinder of radiance over the shrubs and trees in swift sweeps. In one of these it crossed a white face, quivered and rested on it. Barron gave a wild cry and rushed forward. She was, as the boy described, crouched under a clump of small fir-trees, the lower limbs of which had been removed. The place was sheltered from observation from the house and the intrusion of the elements. As the light fell on her she was kneeling, evidently having been drawn to that posture by Barron’s voice. The light revealed her as hatless, with loosened hair, her face pinched, her eyes large and wild. As she saw Barron she shrieked and tried to move forward, but was unable to and held out her arms. He was at her side in a moment, his arms about her, straining her to him, his lips, between frantic kisses, saying words only for him and for her. The policeman, with a soft ejaculation, turned the lantern, and its cube of light fell into the heart of a bed of petunias; then the two men and the boy stood looking at it silently for a space. Presently they heard Barron say: “Come, we must go. I must take you home at once. Turn the light this way, please.” The light came back upon her. She was on her feet, holding to him. “Is it Sunday yet?” she said, looking at them with an affrighted air. “That’s what she keeps asking all the time,” said the boy in a whisper. “No,” said Barron, “it’s Friday. What do you expect on Sunday?” “Only Friday,” she said, hanging back. “I thought I’d hide here till Sunday was over.” Without answering, he put his arm about her and drew her forward. At the steps she hesitated again, and he lifted her and carried her down, the policeman preceding with the lantern. The men helped him into the carriage, not saying much, while the boy stood with his now liberated dog at the top of the steps and shouted, “Good night.” Barron hardly spoke to any of them. A vague thought crossed his mind that he would go to see the boy some day and thank him. She lay with her head on his shoulder, and as the carriage passed the first lamp of the route he leaned forward eagerly to scan her face. It was haggard, white and thin, as by a long illness. He could not speak for a moment, could only hold her in his arms as if thus to wind her round with the symbol of his love. Presently she groaned, and he said: “Are you suffering?” “Yes,” she murmured; “always now. I am sick. I don’t breathe well any more. It hurts in my chest all the time.” “Why did you hide under those trees?” he asked.