d would
have thrust her mistress into bed again, making uncouth protests the
while, had not Dorothy motioned her away with a gentle dignity, which
was hers for use when she chose.

"Go down-stairs, if you please," said she, "and see if my father is
in his study. If he is in there, and busy over his sermon, go to the
barn, and drag out the sleigh for us."

Dorothy, white and fair as an angel, in her straight linen nightgown,
stood out on the floor, in front of her great black guardian, who
made again as though she would seize her and force her back, and
pleaded with her in a thick drone, like an anxious bee, not to go.

"Do as I bid you!" said Dorothy, and glided past her to her dimity
dressing-table, and began combing out her yellow hair.

The black woman went out, muttering.

"If my father is in his study on the north side of the house, and
busy over his sermon, we can get away; otherwise we cannot," said
Dorothy, combing the thick tress over her shoulder.

Madelon went to a south window of the room and looked out. She could
see the barn, and across the road, farther down, the tavern. She
watched while Dorothy bound up her hair, and soon she saw the black
woman run, with a low crouch of her great body like a stealthy
animal, across the yard.

"Your father is in his study," Madelon said, quickly. "I will go over
to the tavern for a horse if yours is too lame."

"He can scarce stand," said Dorothy. Her soft voice trembled; she
trembled all over--then was still with nervous rigors. Bright pink
spots were on her cheeks. A certain girlish daring was there in this
gentle maiden for youthful love and pleasure, else she had not stolen
away that night to the ball, but very little for tragic enterprise.
And, moreover, her fine sense of decorum and womanly pride had always
served her mainly in the place of courage, which she lacked.

Sorely afraid was Dorothy Fair, if the truth were told, to go with
this passionate girl, who had declared to her face she had done
murder, to visit a man who she still half believed, with her helpless
tenacity of thought, was a murderer also. The love she had hitherto
felt for him was eclipsed by terror at the new image of him which her
fearful fancy had conjured up and could not yet dismiss, in spite of
Madelon's assurances. She was, too, really ill, and her delicate
nerves were still awry from the shock they had received the night of
the ball. Parson Fair had been sternly indignant, and