lock and bolt on the front door. The street was still, save for the
twittering of birds and the distant rumble of a cart in its early rounds.
The chill air of the morning made her shiver as she scanned the entry for
the newspaper. Dismayed, she turned to the clock in the hall. Its hands
were at quarter past five.

She sat long behind the curtains in her father's little library, the
thoughts whirling in her brain as she watched the growing life of another
day. What would it bring forth? Once she stole softly back to the entry,
self-indulgent and ashamed, to rehearse again the bitter and the sweet of
that scene of the Sunday before. She summoned up the image of the young
man who had stood on these steps in front of the frightened servants. She
seemed to feel again the calm power and earnestness of his face, to hear
again the clear-cut tones of his voice as he advised her. Then she drew
back, frightened, into the sombre library, conscience-stricken that she
should have yielded to this temptation then, when Clarence--She dared not
follow the thought, but she saw the light skiff at the mercy of the angry
river and the dark night.

This had haunted her. If he were spared, she prayed for strength to
consecrate herself to him A book lay on the table, and Virginia took
refuge in it. And her eyes glancing over the pages, rested on this
verse:--

"Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands."

The paper brought no news, nor mentioned the ruse to which Captain Lyon