"You may understand this: that, after knowing that their father is wicked, that he would have sacrificed his daughter to a vile man, without marriage to lessen her suffering, after knowing that he tried to make a thief of his noble-hearted boy,--I say, after knowing all this, if you can still insist upon helping him, then I would not dare--to trust--my life with you!" Everett's rage blotted out all remembrance of how he left the house; but there was a vivid picture in his mind of a woman, pale and lovely, opening the door and dismissing him coldly. He remembered also that she had shut the door as if it were never to be opened again to him. His only consolation was that before long he would be able to face Fledra Cronk and prove his power to her. With this thought came the satisfaction of knowing that he would be able to wring Horace Shellington's heart. After closing the door upon her lover, Ann stood breathless. The light had suddenly gone from her sun--the whole living world seemed plunged into darkness. Everett was gone, gone from her possibly forever. His face had expressed a determination that proved he would not change his mind. Why had he reasoned himself into thinking that justice could be served in the squatter's cause? Everett must have a motive. Her judgment told her to accuse the man she loved; her heart demanded that she excuse him. For one instant her generous spirit balanced the squatter children's welfare and her own future. She had promised to protect Fledra and Floyd, promised them and Horace. Only a broken prayer escaped her lips as she turned and walked quickly down the hall. She did not wait to knock, but twisted the door-handle convulsively, and appeared before her brother without a plea for pardon for her unannounced entrance. "He's gone forever!" she said brokenly. "Oh, oh, I can't--" She swayed forward, and suddenly a merciful oblivion rested her turbulent spirit, during which her agonized brother worked, hoping and praying that she might soon know how he pitied and loved her. At length, when she opened her eyes and gazed at him, Ann murmured under her breath, with a world of pleading: "Don't speak of him--don't! Dear heart, I can't--I can't bear it!" It was not until long afterward that Horace Shellington heard of the scene through which she had passed. * * * * * Everett Brimbecomb's card admitted him to the governor's home. Mrs. Vandecar welcomed him with outstretched hands. "Strange, Everett," said she, "but I was thinking only this afternoon that I should ask you to dinner. I feel ashamed that I haven't before; but I've been such an invalid for a long time! You must be lonely, now that your father and mother are gone." "I've been busy." The other laughed understandingly. "Ah! I had forgotten that a young engaged man has but few free evenings on his hands." To this Everett did not reply. "How is dear Ann?" asked Mrs. Vandecar.