Having decided to follow upon White’s counsel, Truedale mentally prayed for his return, and at once.  The fact was, Truedale was drugged and he had just sense enough left to know it!  He vaguely realized that the half-hour with Nella-Rose had been a dangerous epoch in his life.  He was safe, thank heaven! but he dared not trust himself just now without a stronger will to guide him!

While he busied himself at feeding the animals, preparing and clearing away his own evening meal, he grew calmer.  The storm was gaining in fury—­and he was thankful for it!  He was shut away from possible temptation; he even found it easy to think of Kendall and of Lynda, but he utterly eliminated his uncle from his mind.  Between him and old William Truedale the gulf seemed to have become impassable!

And while Truedale sank into an unsafe mental calm, Nella-Rose pushed her way into the teeth of the storm and laughed and chattered like a mad and lost little nymph.  Wind and rain always exhilarated her and the fury of the elements, gaining force every minute, did not alarm her while the memory of her great experience held sway over her.  She shook her hair back from her wide, vague eyes.  She was undecided where to go for the night—­it did not matter greatly; to-morrow she would go again to Truedale, or he would come to her.  At last she settled upon seeking the shelter of old Lois Ann, in Devil-may-come Hollow, and turned in that direction.

It was eight o’clock then and Truedale, with his books and papers on the table before him, declared:  “I am quite all right now,” and fell to work upon the manuscript that earlier had engrossed him.

As the time sped by he was able to visualize the play; he was sitting in the audience—­he beheld the changing scenes and the tense climax.  He even began to speculate upon the particular star that would be fitted for the leading part.  His one extravagance, in the past, had been cut-rate seats in the best theatres.

Suddenly the mood passed and all at once Truedale realized that he was tired—­deadly tired.  The perspiration stood on his forehead—­he ached from the strain of cramped muscles.  Then he looked at his watch; it was eleven o’clock!  The stillness out of doors bespoke a sullen break in the storm.  A determined drip-drip from roof and trees was like the ticking of a huge clock running down, but good for some time.  The fire had died out, not a bit of red showed in the ashes, but the room was hot, still.  Truedale decided to go to bed without it, and, having come to that conclusion, he bent his head upon his folded arms and sank into a deep sleep.

Suddenly he awoke.  The room was cold and dark!  The lamp had burned itself out and the storm was again howling in its second attack.  Chilled and obsessed by an unnerving sense of danger, Truedale waited for—­he knew not what!  Just then something pressed against his leg and he put his hand down thinking one of the dogs was crouching close, but a whispered “sh!” set every muscle tense.