She went tipping over the floor to something white that lay on a
board, a candle at the head, and drew off the sheet. A girl of
fifteen, almost a child, lay underneath, dead,--her lithe,
delicate figure decked out in a dirty plaid skirt, and stained
velvet bodice,--her neck and arms bare. The small face was
purely cut, haggard, patient in its sleep,--the soft, fair hair
gathered off the tired forehead. Margret leaned over her,
shuddering, pinning her handkerchief about the child's dead neck.

"How young she is!" muttered Knowles. "Merciful God, how young
she is!--What is that you say?" sharply, seeing Margret's lips
move.

" `He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone
at her.' "

"Ah, child, that is old-time philosophy. Put your hand here, on
her dead face. Is your loss like hers?" he said lower, looking
into the dull pain in her eyes. Selfish pain he called it.

"Let me go," she said. "I am tired."

He took her out into the cool, open road, leading her tenderly
enough,--for the girl suffered, he saw.

"What will you do?" he asked her then. "It is not too
late,--will you help me save these people?"

She wrung her hands helplessly.