er. She
will have the truth out of herself. "Why not go to him if you so desire
to help him?" "Because I am ashamed, because I have made myself cheap,
and I cannot bear his eyes upon me. Because if I have made a mistake and
he does not care for me--oh, then I never want to see him again, for
he would pity me, and that I cannot bear." "What? Not even to bring him
rest and relief from his pain? Not to help him in a critical hour? He
has been asking for you, remember." Steadily they face each other, eye
to eye, and all at once she is conscious that the struggle is over, and,
looking at the face in the glass, she says, "Yes, I think I would be
willing to do that for him, no matter how it would shame me." Another
heart-searching pause, and the eyes answer her again, "I will go
to-morrow." At once she reads a new peace in the face that gazes at her
so weary and wan, and she knows that for the sake of the man she loves
she is willing to endure even the shame of his pity. The battle was
over and some sort of victory at least she had won. An eager impatience
possessed her to go to him at once. "I wish it were to-morrow now, this
very minute."

She rose and looked out into the night. There was neither moon nor stars
and a storm was brewing, but she knew she could find her way in the
dark. Quietly and with a great peace in her heart she bathed her swollen
face, changed her dress to one fresh from the ironing board--pale blue
it was with a dainty vine running through it--threw a wrap about her and
went out to her mother.

"I am going up to the Waring-Gaunts', Mother. They might need me," she
said in a voice of such serene control that her mother only answered,

"Yes, dear, Larry will go with you. He will soon be in."

"There is no need, Mother, I am not afraid."

Her mother made no answer but came to her and with a display of
tenderness unusual between them put her arms about her and kissed her.
"Good-night, then, darling; I am sure you will do them good."

The night was gusty and black, but Kathleen had no fear. The road was
known to her, and under the impulse of the purpose that possessed her
she made nothing of the darkness nor of the approaching storm. She
hurried down the lane toward the main trail, refusing to discuss with
herself the possible consequence of what she was doing. Nor did she know
just what situation she might find at the Waring-Gaunts'. They would
doubtless be surprised to see her. They might not need her