"Our home is yours, just as long as you can bear the monotony of our simple lives," he said, in his quiet way, but it was deep-throated and unmistakable in its sincerity. She laid her hand on his arm and clasped it hard, then turned away her head, and they rode in silence. After they left the car, Allen sat with savage eyes and grimly set mouth, going over the problem again and again. He saw that young and helpless creature walking the gantlet between endless ranks of lustful, remorseless men, snatching at her in selfish, bestial desire. It made him bitter and despairing to think that women should be helpless--that they should need some man to protect them against some other man. He cursed the laws and traditions that had kept women subordinate and trivial and deceptive and vacillating. He wished they could be raised to the level of the brutes till, like the tigress or she-wolf, they could not only defend themselves, but their young. He tried to breathe a sigh of relief that she had gone out of his life but--he could not. It was not so easy to shake off the shadow of his responsibility. He followed her on her downward path till he saw her stretching out her hands in pitiful need to casual acquaintances--alone and without hope; still petite, still dainty in spite of all, still with flashes of wit, and then---- He shuddered. "O my God! Upon whom does the burden of guilt lie?" * * * * * On the night of his return he sat among his romping babes debating whether he should tell the story to his wife or not. As the little ones grew weary, the noise of the autumn wind--the lonely, woeful, moaning prairie wind--came to his ears and he shuddered. His wife observed it. "What is it, Joe? Did you get a chill?" "Oh, no. The wind sounds a little lonesome to-night, that's all." But he took his little girl into his arms and held her close. IV. THE PASSING STRANGER. This was the story the mystic told: It was about eleven o'clock of an October night. The street was one of the worst of the city, but it was Monday--one of its quiet nights. The saloons flared floods of feverish light upon the walk, and breathed their terrible odors, like caverns leading downward into hell. Restless, loitering crowds moved to and fro, with rasping, uncertain footsteps, out of which the click of health had gone. Policemen occasionally showed themselves menacingly, and the crowd responded to their impact by action quickened, like a python touched with a red-hot rod. It was nearly time to close, and the barkeepers were beginning to betray signs of impatience with their most drunken customers. A dark, tall man in cloak and fez moved slowly down the street. His face was serene but somber. In passing the window of a brilliantly lighted drinking place he stopped and looked in.