She was the heritor of lawless, self-willed, passionate ancestors.  Their turbulent blood beat in her veins.  All the safeguards that should have hedged her were gone.  A wise mother, an understanding father, could have saved her from the tragedy waiting to engulf her.  But she had neither of these.  Instead, her father’s inhibitions pushed her toward that doom to which she was moving blindfold.

Before her cracked mirror the girl dressed herself bravely in her cheap best.  She had no joy in the thing she was going to do.  Of her love she was not sure and of her lover very unsure.  A bell of warning rang faintly in her heart as she waited for the hours to slip away.

A very little would have turned the tide.  But she nursed her anger against her father, fed her resentment with the memory of all his wrongs to her.  When at last she crept through the window to the dark porch trellised with wild cucumbers, she persuaded herself that she was going only to tell Dave Roush that she would not join him.

Her heart beat fast with excitement and dread.  Poor, undisciplined daughter of the hills though she was, a rumor of the future whispered in her ears and weighted her bosom.

Quietly she stole past the sassafras brake to the big laurel.  Her lover took her instantly into his arms and kissed the soft mouth again and again.  She tried to put him from her, to protest that she was not going with him.  But before his ardor her resolution melted.  As always, when he was with her, his influence was paramount.

“The boat is under that clump of bushes,” he whispered.

“Oh, Dave, I’m not goin’,” she murmured.

“Then I’ll go straight to the house an’ have it out with the old man,” he answered.

His voice rang gay with the triumph of victory.  He did not intend to let her hesitations rob him of it.

“Some other night,” she promised.  “Not now—­I don’t want to go now.  I—­I’m not ready.”

“There’s no time like to-night, honey.  My brother came with me in the boat.  We’ve got horses waitin’—­an’ the preacher came ten miles to do the job.”

Then, with the wisdom born of many flirtations, he dropped argument and wooed her ardently.  The anchors that held the girl to safety dragged.  The tug of sex, her desire of love and ignorance of life, his eager and passionate demand that she trust him:  all these swelled the tide that beat against her prudence.

She caught his coat lapels tightly in her clenched fists.

“If I go I’ll be givin’ up everything in the world for you, Dave Roush.  My folks’ll hate me.  They’d never speak to me again.  You’ll be good to me.  You won’t cast it up to me that I ran away with you.  You’ll—­you’ll—­” Her voice broke and she gulped down a little sob.

He laughed.  She could not see his face in the darkness, but the sound of his laughter was not reassuring.  He should have met her appeal seriously.