iled atmosphere of the earth it had
lost its crystal gleam and burned with a turgid light. It was very,
very probable.

He continued to watch it, facing the tonic wind, until with a clearing
of his mind, a gasp of joyful recognition, he knew that it was the
riding light of the _Gar_.

Woolfolk sat very still under the pressure of his renewed sanity. Fact
upon fact, memory on memory, returned, and in proper perspective built
up again his mentality, his logic, his scattered powers of being. The
_Gar_ rode uneasily on her anchor chains; the wind was shifting. They
must get away!--Halvard, waiting at the wharf--Millie----

He rose hurriedly to his feet--he had deserted Millie; left her, in
all her anguish, with her dead parent and Iscah Nicholas. His love for
her swept back, infinitely heightened by the knowledge of her
suffering. At the same time there returned the familiar fear of a
permanent disarrangement in her of chords that were unresponsive to
the clumsy expedients of affection and science. She had been subjected
to a strain that might well unsettle a relatively strong will; and she
had been fragile in the beginning.

She must be a part of no more scenes of violence, he told himself,
moving hurriedly through the orange grove; she must be led quietly to
the tender--that is, if it were not already too late. His entire
effort to preserve her had been a series of blunders, each one of
which might well have proved fatal, and now, together, perhaps had.

He mounted to the porch and entered the hall. The light flowed
undisturbed from the room on the right; and, in its thin wash, he saw
that Iscah Nicholas had disappeared from the lower steps. Immediately,
however, and from higher up, he heard a shuffling, and could just make
out a form heaving obscurely in the gloom. Nicholas patently was
making progress toward the consummation of his one fixed idea; but
Woolfolk decided that at present he could best afford to ignore him.

He entered the lighted room, and found Millie seated and gazing in
dull wonderment at the figure on the floor.

"I must tell you about my father," she said conversationally. "You
know, in Virginia, the women tied an apron to his door because he
would not go to war, and for years that preyed on his mind, until he
was afraid of the slightest thing. He was without a particle of
strength--just to watch the sun cross the sky wearied him, and the
smallest disagreement upset him for a week."

She stop