one. Julia fixed it mighty well
getting the servants out of the way, but it don't make for hospitality."

Turning on him, the doctor raised his head and said, querulously: "Stop
talking, can't you, man, and think. What are you going to do?"

What was he going to do? He, Judge Ogilvie, did not know what he was
going to do. He looked helplessly into his friend's eyes.

Rising wearily the doctor went toward the door.

"You aren't going?" the man of the house cried in alarm.

"Yes, for a little. I've other work to do."

"See here, don't leave us like this! Supposing anything happens."

"Nothing should happen; only remember she is very weak. I should fear a
shock."

"But what are we going to do?"

"Talk with your wife." The doctor spoke with a note of command. "I'm not
the one to say what you should do." He pulled on his coat and, turning,
held out his hand to his friend. "I'll be back soon," he said more
gently. "I'll be with you through the night."

Then he opened the door upon the howling wind and rain and was gone.

Judge Ogilvie walked back into the living-room to see his wife standing
before the open fire.

She was a small woman, with a small, hard mouth. Usually it was firmly
set, but to-night it trembled with her trembling chin. The judge noted
that the old dress she wore, long discarded, was wet; that her hair lay
damp against her forehead. Her hands, too, were wet, as she held them
out to the flames.

"Where's the doctor?" she asked.

"Gone, for a little."

"And Lillias?"

"She has been quiet for some time. But you have been with her; you
should know."

"No," the woman answered, "I have been acting for Lillias while you two
have gaped and talked and risked her future with every hour. Something
has been done."

"Yes?" The man of the house found his heart beating fast, but he put his
question quietly, deliberately. "You have had many plans. Which have you
used?"

"I've hidden it; hidden her shame. It can never cross her path in this
world."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I've not committed murder." She clenched her trembling hands
together. "Not that it mightn't be the best thing. But it's buried,
buried. You will never see it again."

"Buried?"

"Buried from the world into which it was born. Hidden in the sure way
that one in the South can hide. I did it myself," she went on in a
whisper. "I put some money in its dress and carried it in my arms that
no one might know. I went through the a