ing jerk to an
account of a crime in New York, and the difficulty the police had
experienced in taking the guilty man in safety to the police station.
He read the account aloud.

"Seems to me the principal thing the New York police protect is the
criminals," he said, bitterly. "If they would turn a little of their
attention to protecting the helpless women and children, seems to me
it would be more to the purpose. They're awful careful of the
criminals."

Sylvia did not hear. She assented absently. She thought, in spite of
herself, of the good-fortune which was to befall them. She imagined
herself mistress of the old White homestead. They would, of course,
rent their own little cottage and go to live in the big house. She
imagined herself looking through the treasures which Abrahama would
leave behind her--then a monstrous loathing of herself seized her.
She resolved that the very next morning she would go over and help
Miss Babcock, that she would put all consideration of material
benefits from her mind. She brought her thoughts with an effort to
the article which Henry had just read. She could recall his last
words.

"Yes, I think you are right," said she. "I think criminals ought not
to be protected. You are right, Henry. I think myself we ought to
have a doctor called from Alford to-morrow, if she is no better, and
have a consultation. Dr. Wallace is good, but he is only one, and
sometimes another doctor has different ideas, and she may get help."

"Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation," said Henry. "I will
see about it to-morrow. I will go over there with you myself
to-morrow morning. I think the police ought not to protect the
criminals, but the people who are injured by them."

"Then there would be no criminals. They would have no chance," said
Sylvia, sagely. "Yes, I agree with you, Henry, there ought to be a
consultation."

She looked at Henry and he at her, and each saw in the other's face
that same ignoble joy, and that same resentment and denial of it.

Neither slept that night. They were up early the next morning. Sylvia
was getting breakfast and Henry was splitting wood out in the yard.
Presently he came stumbling in. "Come out here," he said. Sylvia
followed him to the door. They stepped out in the dewy yard and stood
listening. Beneath their feet was soft, green grass strewn with tiny
spheres which reflected rainbows. Over their heads was a wonderful
sky of the clearest angelic blue. T