to such
an extent that when she spoke again, as if in self-communion, her words
came quietly, yet with overtones of a supreme wo.

"She did it!" Then, after a little, she addressed the girl with a
certain wondering before this mystery of horror. "Why did you throw the
blame on me?"

The girl made several efforts before her mumbling became intelligible,
and then her speech was gasping, broken with fear.

"I found out they were watching me, and I was afraid they would catch
me. So, I took them and ran into the cloak-room, and put them in a
locker that wasn't close to mine, and some in the pocket of a coat that
was hanging there. God knows I didn't know whose it was. I just put them
there--I was frightened----"

"And you let me go to prison for three years!" There was a menace in
Mary's voice under which the girl cringed again.

"I was scared," she whined. "I didn't dare to tell."

"But they caught you later," Mary went on inexorably. "Why didn't you
tell then?"

"I was afraid," came the answer from the shuddering girl. "I told them
it was the first time I had taken anything and they let me off with a
year."

Once more, the wrath of the victim flamed high.

"You!" Mary cried. "You cried and lied, and they let you off with a
year. I wouldn't cry. I told the truth--and----" Her voice broke in a
tearless sob. The color had gone out of her face, and she stood rigid,
looking down at the girl whose crime had ruined her life with an
expression of infinite loathing in her eyes. Garson rose from his chair
as if to go to her, and his face passed swiftly from compassion to
ferocity as his gaze went from the woman he had saved from the river
to the girl who had been the first cause of her seeking a grave in the
waters. Yet, though he longed with every fiber of him to comfort the
stricken woman, he did not dare intrude upon her in this time of her
anguish, but quietly dropped back into his seat and sat watching with
eyes now tender, now baleful, as they shifted their direction.

Aggie took advantage of the pause. Her voice was acid.

"Some people are sneaks--just sneaks!"

Somehow, the speech was welcome to the girl, gave her a touch of courage
sufficient for cowardly protestations. It seemed to relieve the tension
drawn by the other woman's torment. It was more like the abuse that was
familiar to her. A gush of tears came.

"I'll never forgive myself, never!" she moaned.

Contempt mounted in Mary's breast.

"Oh, ye