running. She was so young. Could the baby be hers? It must be
hers. Nothing but a mother-face could have in it what hers had. Why
was she afraid, and of what?

The streets were becoming rough and unpaved before I noticed I was
nearing the city limits, and, cutting across afield, I got into the
Avenue, toward the end of which was Selwyn's house. As I neared it
my steps slowed. For years the Thorne property had been on the
outskirts of the city, but progress had taken it in, and already
houses, flagrantly modern and architecturally shameless, offered
strong contrast to its perfect lines, its conscious dignity, its calm
aloofness, and its stone walls which shielded it from gaping gaze and
gave it privacy. The iron gates were closed, the shutters drawn, and
from the place stillness that was oppressive radiated, a stillness
that was ominous.

Pride was undoubtedly Selwyn's dominating characteristic. Pride in
his name, in its unstained honor, in the heritage of his fathers; and
in the presence of his house it seemed an ugly dream--the picture
ever in my mind, the picture of Selwyn walking slowly with a young
girl in the dark of a winter afternoon in a section of the city as
removed from his as sunlight is removed from shadow. In his nature
was nothing that could make such association imaginable. If no
higher deterrent prevented, pride would protect him from doubtful
situations. He was sensitive to higher deterrents, however, as
sensitive as I.

Passing the gates, on the stone columns of which the quaint,
old-fashioned lamps of former days were still nightly lighted, I
glanced through them at the snow-covered lawn and the square-built,