"Do you mean Burton's?"     

       "Yes. That's it. Can you direct me?" The voice of the girl was faint; she seemed about to fall.     

       "It is six or eight miles from here," said Mrs. Wrandall, still looking in wonder at the miserable nightfarer.     

       The girl's head sank; a moan of despair came through her lips, ending in a sob.     

       "So far as that?" she murmured. Then she drew herself up with a fine show of resolution. "But I must not stop here. Thank you."     

       "Wait!" cried the other. The girl turned to her once more. "Is—is it a matter of life or death?"     

       There was a long silence. "Yes. I must find my way there. It is—death."     

       Sara Wrandall laid her heavily gloved hand on the slim fingers that touched the tire.     

       "Listen to me," she said, a shrill note of resolve ringing in her voice.       "I am going to New York. Won't you let me take you with me?"     

       The girl drew back, wonder and apprehension struggling for the mastery of her eyes.     

       "But I am bound the other way. To the inn. I must go on."     

       "Come with me," said Sara Wrandall firmly. "You must not go back there. I know what has happened there. Come! I will take care of you. You must not go to the inn."     

       "You know?" faltered the girl.     

       "Yes. You poor thing!" There was infinite pity in her voice.     

       The girl laid her head on her arms.     

       Mrs. Wrandall sat above her, looking down, held mute by warring emotions. The impossible had come to pass. The girl for whom the whole world would be searching in a day or two, had stepped out of the unknown and, by the most whimsical jest of fate, into the custody of the one person most interested of all in that self-same world. It was unbelievable. She wondered if it were not a dream, or the hallucination of an overwrought mind. Spurred by the sudden doubt as to the reality of the object before her, she stretched out her hand and touched the 

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