arms around her and they kissed each other.

"Good-night, child," Mrs. Talcott then said in a muffled voice, and
disengaging herself she went out quickly.

Karen stood listening to the sound of her footsteps passing down the
corridor. They went down the little flight of stairs that led to another
side of the house and faded away. All was still.

She did not pause or hesitate. She did not seem to think. Swiftly and
accurately she found her walking-shoes and put them on, her hat and
cloak; her purse with its half-crown, its sixpence and its few coppers.
Swiftly she laid together a change of underwear and took from her
dressing-table its few toilet appurtenances. She paused then, looking at
the ornaments of her girlhood. She must have money. She must sell
something; yet all these her guardian had given her.

No; not all. Her little gold watch ticked peacefully, lying on the table
beside her bed as it had lain beside her for so many years; her
beautiful little watch, treasured by her since the distant birthday when
Onkel Ernst had given it.

She clutched it tightly in her hand and it seemed to her, as she had
once said to Gregory, that the iron drove deep into her heart and turned
up not only dark forgotten things but dark and dreadful things never
seen before.

She leaned against the table, putting the hand that held Onkel Ernst's
watch to her eyes, and his agony became part of her own. How he had
suffered. And the other man, the young, forgotten Russian. Mrs.
Talcott's story became real to her as it had not yet been. It entered
her; it filled her past; it linked itself with everything that she had
been and done and believed. And the iron drove down deeper, until of her
heart there seemed only to be left a deep black hole.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Mrs. Talcott had a broken night and it was like a continuation of some
difficult and troubled dream when she heard the voice of Mercedes saying
to her: "Tallie, Tallie, wake up. Tallie, will you wake! _Bon Dieu!_ how
she sleeps!"

The voice of Mercedes when she had heard it last had been the voice of
passion and desperation, but its tone was changed this morning; it was
fretful, feverishly irritable, rather than frantic.

Mrs. Talcott opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She wore a Jaeger
nightgown and her head, with its white hair coiled at the top, was
curiously unaltered by its informal setting.

"What do you mean by coming waking me up like this after the night
y