off.

Geraldine spoke. "I'm surprised this country seems so flat. I thought it
would be hilly about here."

"Not so close to the sea," replied Carder. "There is what they call the
mountain, though, over yonder." He jerked his head vaguely. "Pretty
good-sized hill. Makes a water-shed that favors my farm."

Geraldine appeared to listen in silence to the monologue that followed
concerning her companion's prowess as a self-made man and the cleverness
with which he had seized every opportunity that came his way. Her mind
was in a singular tumult. An incoming wave of thought--the reminder that
she must be clever, too, and earn Carder's confidence in order that he
might relax his espionage--was met by the counter-consideration that if
she disappointed his desire he would blast her father's name. Just as
happens in the meeting of the incoming and outgoing tide, her thoughts
would be broken and fly up in a confusion as to what course she really
wished to pursue. By the time she gained the privacy of her own room
that night, she felt exhausted by the contradictions of her own beaten
heart and she sat down again in the hard chair, too dulled to think.

At last she put her hand in her bosom and drew out her letter. She would
feel the human touch of Miss Upton's kindliness once again. Even if she
gave "her body to be burned" and all life became a desert of ashes, one
star would shine upon her sacrifice, the affectionate thought of this
good woman who had made so much effort for her.

She closed her eyes to the exhortation scribbled on the envelope.
Whatever plan the tall knight had in mind, it was certain that her
escape was the end in view. Did she wish to escape? Did she? Could she
pay the cost? What happiness would there be for her when all her life
she Would be hearing in fancy the amazement at her father's crime, the
gossip and condemnation that would go the rounds of his associates.

She held the letter to her sick heart and gazing into space pictured the
hateful future.

There was a slight stir outside her door. Something was again being
pushed beneath it by slow degrees. Again it looked like an envelope, but
this time the paper was not white. Geraldine regarded the small dusky
square, scarcely discernible in the lamplight, and rising went toward
it.

She picked up the much-soiled object by its extreme corner. It bore no
address. She believed Pete must have written to her, and was greatly
touched by the thought that