ud had come up and threatened rain, and the
wind was rising ominously. The old way was the shorter; she wanted
above all things to get to Elder Johnson's and go to bed. Perhaps
sleep would rest her tired brain--she could not imagine herself feeling
worse, unless she should break down altogether.

She plunged into the path and hastened forward so as to reach home
before the approaching storm. So completely was she absorbed in her
own thoughts that she scarcely noticed that Plato himself seemed
preoccupied. Instead of capering along like a playful kitten or puppy,
he walked by her side unusually silent. When they had gone a short
distance and were approaching a path which intersected their road at
something near a right angle, the teacher missed Plato. He had dropped
behind a moment before; now he had disappeared entirely. Her vague
alarm of a few moments before returned with redoubled force.

"Plato!" she called; "Plato!"

There was no response, save the soughing of the wind through the
swaying treetops. She stepped hastily forward, wondering if this were
some childish prank. If so, it was badly timed, and she would let
Plato feel the weight of her displeasure.

Her forward step had brought her to the junction of the two paths,
where she paused doubtfully. The route she had been following was the
most direct way home, but led for quite a distance through the forest,
which she did not care to traverse alone. The intersecting path would
soon take her to the main road, where she might find shelter or
company, or both. Glancing around again in search of her missing
escort, she became aware that a man was approaching her from each of
the two paths. In one she recognized the eager and excited face of
George Tryon, flushed with anticipation of their meeting, and yet grave
with uncertainty of his reception. Advancing confidently along the
other path she saw the face of Jeff Wain, drawn, as she imagined in her
anguish, with evil passions which would stop at nothing.

What should she do? There was no sign of Plato--for aught she could
see or hear of him, the earth might have swallowed him up. Some deadly
serpent might have stung him. Some wandering rabbit might have tempted
him aside. Another thought struck her. Plato had been very
quiet--there had been something on his conscience--perhaps he had
betrayed her! But to which of the two men, and to what end?

The problem was too much for her overwrought brain