"Listen to me," she said, a shrill note of resolve ringing in her
voice. "I am going to New York. Won't you let me take you with me?"

The girl drew back, wonder and apprehension struggling for the
mastery of her eyes.

"But I am bound the other way. To the inn. I must go on."

"Come with me," said Sara Wrandall firmly. "You must not go back
there. I know what has happened there. Come! I will take care of
you. You must not go to the inn."

"You know?" faltered the girl.

"Yes. You poor thing!" There was infinite pity in her voice.

The girl laid her head on her arms.

Mrs. Wrandall sat above her, looking down, held mute by warring
emotions. The impossible had come to pass. The girl for whom the
whole world would be searching in a day or two, had stepped out
of the unknown and, by the most whimsical jest of fate, into the
custody of the one person most interested of all in that self-same
world. It was unbelievable. She wondered if it were not a dream,
or the hallucination of an overwrought mind. Spurred by the sudden
doubt as to the reality of the object before her, she stretched
out her hand and touched the girl's shoulder.

Instantly she looked up. Her fingers sought the friendly hand and
clasped it tightly.