"Where's her room?" the two parents were at the door before cook could get the directions out of her mouth. On the way they encountered Miss Aurelia carrying a hot-water bottle in her hand, a flask of aromatic spirits of ammonia in the other. The lady had been wandering about with these for hours; now like a fountain of tears with fireworks of explanations round it, she began sending up hysterical rockets. "Oh, Mrs. Gerould, Minga will be glad--I don't suppose I--you should talk to her now ... and Mr. Gerould, how do you do? Sard will know; she is with Minga--but our Dunstan, did you know? Had you heard the--er particulars?--he--they, under arrest!" Sobbing, Miss Aurelia, with that superb power of tears that some people possess, talked through a steady sliding of drops that ran down sluices of pale cheeks until the two Geroulds in spite of anxiety looked on admiringly--"the poor--er--criminal, Terry--is dead--one can--er"--sniff,--"hardly grieve--but our boy, our Dunstan"--sob--"is gravely injured--the shoulders and head--fractures--they fear for his life----" To the gentle soothing of the Mede and Persian, Miss Aurelia leaned like a wind-blown branch, but the gusts of weeping came anew and the branch merely swayed; the two newcomers after a while detached themselves; with a sense of relief they stepped into Minga's room. Sard rose swiftly out of the dark; Mrs. Gerould caught her two hands. "Minga's all right," the girl whispered. "They gave her something quieting because she was so horrified--Terry, you see--Terry is dead." The young form straightened; Sard spoke with grave calmness. "Terry's troubles are over." The Geroulds took her hands--together they spoke encouragingly to her. "Dear, you've been such a brick, we're proud of you; Eleanor Ledyard has told us how you worked to save Terry, and you've done our little Minga so much good." The big-hearted man and woman longed to take the strained look of tragedy from this young face. There were other things they knew that had turned Sard grave and old in this one summer. They scanned her anxiously, wishing she were not so set and stern. "When Dunstan gets out of the woods,"--they patted her hands--"you come to us for a while and--and--well, we want to help." This kind man and woman, understanding her, standing by her, shook the girl to her depths. Sard's lips trembled. "I'd like to," she said, her eyes thrilled--"I'd like," Sard said simply, "to earn my own living; maybe you would help me do that." Her eyes deepened and thrilled, and in them the Geroulds read the old story, Youth at bay, yet they heard her words, "But I mustn't leave my father now--not now." Sard, with a curious little gesture, motioned in the direction of Dunstan's room.