turned her head until her eyes met the eyes of the other woman. There
was a moment when they held each other in a steady, burning look in
which there was no evasion nor flinching. Then Martha Hale's eyes
pointed the way to the basket in which was hidden the thing that would
make certain the conviction of the other woman--that woman who was not
there and yet who had been there with them all through that hour.

For a moment Mrs. Peters did not move. And then she did it. With a rush
forward, she threw back the quilt pieces, got the box, tried to put it
in her handbag. It was too big. Desperately she opened it, started to
take the bird out. But there she broke--she could not touch the bird.
She stood there helpless, foolish.

There was the sound of a knob turning in the inner door. Martha Hale
snatched the box from the sheriff's wife, and got it in the pocket of
her big coat just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back into
the kitchen.

"Well, Henry," said the county attorney facetiously, "at least we found
out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to--what is it
you call it, ladies?"

Mrs. Hale's hand was against the pocket of her coat.

"We call it--knot it, Mr. Henderson."

THE BUNKER MOUSE[12]

[Note 12: Copyright, 1917, by The Century Company. Copyright, 1918,
by Frederick Stuart Greene.]

By FREDERICK STUART GREENE

From _The Century Magazine_

LARRY WALSH slowly climbed the stairs of a house near the waterfront, in
a run-down quarter of old New York. He halted on the top floor, blinking
in the dim light that struggled through the grime-coated window of the
hallway. After a time he knocked timidly on the door before him.

There was nothing in the pleasant "Come in" to alarm the small man; he
started to retreat, but stopped when the door was thrown wide.

"Then it's yourself, Mouse! It's good for the eyes just to look at you."

The woman who greeted Walsh was in striking contrast to her shabby
surroundings. Everything about the old-fashioned house, one floor of
which was her home, spoke of neglected age. This girl, from the heavy,
black braids encircling her head to the soles of her shoes, vibrated
youth. Her cheeks glowed with the color of splendid health; her blue
Irish eyes were bright with it. Friendliness had rung in the tones of
her rich brogue, and showed now in her smile as she waited for her
visitor to answer.

Larry stood before her too shy to speak.

"Is it w