"Oh, if you will only take me to the city with you! If you only
give me the chance," she cried hoarsely. "I don't know what impulse
was driving me back there. I only know I could not help myself.
You really mean it? You WILL take me with you?"

"Yes. Don't be afraid. Come! Get in," said the woman in the car
rapidly. "You--you are real?"

The girl did not hear the strange question. She was hurrying around
to the opposite side of the car. As she crossed before the lamps,
Mrs. Wrandall noticed with dulled interest that her garments were
covered with mud; her small, comely hat was in sad disorder; loose
wisps of hair fluttered with the unsightly veil. Her hands, she
recalled, were clad in thin suede gloves. She would be half-frozen.
She had been out in all this terrible weather,--perhaps since the
hour of her flight from the inn.

The odd feeling of pity grew stronger within her. She made no
effort to analyse it, nor to account for it. Why should she pity
the slayer of her husband? It was a question unasked, unconsidered.
Afterwards she was to recall this hour and its strange impulses,
and to realise that it was not pity, but mercy that moved her to
do the extraordinary thing that followed.

Trembling all over, her teeth chattering, her breath coming in
short little moans, the girl struggled up beside her and fell back
in the seat. Without a word, Sara Wrandall drew the great buffalo
robe over her and tucked it in about her feet and legs and far up
about her body, which had slumped down in the seat.