o pick up his
bag, which he opened. "Here's a bunch of my handkerchiefs," he said. "They
are bigger than yours. They should make you at least a pillow-case. Good
night."

The setter rose to follow inquiringly at his heels; the lantern swung
gently to his tread and, as his shape disappeared in the gloom, his
whistle, sweet, soft, almost tender, fluted back to her. It was the "Good
night" from the opera of _Martha_. And Miss Armitage smiled in the face of
Fear and turned resolutely to go in.

But the next moment she was back again over the threshold. "Mr. Tisdale!"
she called, and the currents held so long in check surged in her voice.
"Mr. Tisdale!"

Instantly the lantern swung an arc. He came quickly back to the steps.
"Well," he said, breaking the pause, "what is the trouble?"

"I know I must seem foolish--but--please don't go--yet." Her position on
the edge of the porch brought her face almost on a level with his. Her
eyes in the semi-darkness were luminously big; her face, her whole body
quivered. She leaned a little towards him, and her nearness, the low,
vibrant intensity of her voice, set his pulses singing.

"I really can't stay in that room," she explained. "Those beds all but
touch, and she, the mother, has crowded in, dressed as she is, to sleep
with the children. There isn't any air to breathe. I--I really can't make
myself lie down--there. I had rather spend the night here on the piazza.
Only--please wait--until--"

Tisdale laughed his short, mellow note. "You mean you are afraid of the
dark, or is it the cougar?"

"It's both and the lightning, too. There! See how it plays along those
awful heights; javelins of it; whole broadsides. I know it is foolish, but
I can't help feeling it is following me. It singles me out, threatens me
as though I am--guilty."

"Guilty? You? Of what?" Tisdale put down the lantern and came up the
steps. "See here, Miss Armitage, come take your chair." He moved it around
from the table and laid his hand on her arm, impelling her into the seat.
"Now face it out. Those flashes of heat lightning are about as dangerous
as the Aurora Borealis. You ought to know that."

Then, because the personal contact had set his blood racing, he moved away
to the edge of the porch and stood frowning off up the gorge. He knew she
covered her face with her hands; he believed she was crying, and he
desired beyond all reason to take her to his heart and quiet her. He only
said: "But I understan