amiliar word and launched out after the woman.
"Pardon me, missus," he cried, "but is it Miss Brown's you mean?"

The widow stopped, glanced back at him over her shoulder, made a quick,
protesting gesture and dashed on.

With a shake of his head and a muttered, "Well, women do beat the devil!"
he retraced his steps; and she proceeded on alone.

As the last sound of his horses' hoof-beats died out on the road, a
second clap of thunder seemed to bring heaven and earth together. She
scarcely looked up. She was approaching a little weather-beaten house
nestled among trees on the edge of a deep gorge. As her eyes fell on it,
her footsteps quickened, and lifting a hasty hand, she pulled off her
veil. A change quite indescribable, but real for all that, had taken
place in her worn and waxen features. Not joy, but a soft expectancy
relieved them from their extreme tension. If a friend awaited her, that
friend would have no difficulty in recognizing her now. But alas!

A few steps more, and she stood before the door. It had a desolate look;
the whole house had a desolate look, possibly because every shade was
drawn. But she did not notice this; she was too sure of her welcome.
Raising her hand to the knocker, she gave two sharp raps. Then she
waited. No answer from within--no sound of hurrying steps--only another
rumble in the sky and a quick rustling of the trees on either side of her
as if the wind which made the horizon black had sent an _avant-courieur_
over the hilltops.

"Elvira is out--gone to some church meeting or social gathering down in
the village. She will be back. But I won't wait. I will try and get in in
the old way. The storm may delay her indefinitely."

Leaving the door, which was raised only two steps above the road, she
walked to the corner of the house and stooping down, felt behind a
projecting stone for what she had certainly expected to find there--a key
to the front door.

But her hand came away empty.

Surprised, for this was not her first visit to this house (she had once
spent weeks there and knew the habits of its mistress well), she felt
again in the place where the key should be, and where she had so often
found it when her friend was out. But all to no avail. It was not there,
and presently she was in the road again staring at the closed-up front.

As she did so, these words left her lips:

"And she knew I might come at any minute!"

Tottering from fatigue, she caught at the trunk of