There were red spots all over Katy’s face and neck as she saw the meaning put upon her actions, and covering her face with her hands she sobbed violently as she replied:  “I do, oh, yes, I do.  I never loved any one else.  I would have died for him once.  Maybe I would die for him now; but, Morris, I fear he is disappointed in me.  Our tastes are not alike, and we made a great mistake, or Wilford did when he took me for his wife.  I was better suited to most anybody else, and I have been so wicked since, forgetting all the good I ever knew, forgetting prayer save as I went through the form from old habit’s sake, forgetting God, who has overtaken me at last and punished me so sorely that every nerve smarts with the stinging blows.”

Oh, how lovingly, how earnestly Morris talked to Katy then, telling her of Him who smites but to heal, who chastens not in anger, but who would lead the lost one back into the quiet fold where there was perfect peace.

And Katy, listening eagerly, with her great blue eyes fixed upon his face, felt that to be like him, to experience that of which he talked, was worth more than all the world beside.  Gradually; too, there stole over her the rest she always felt with him—­the indescribable feeling which prompted her to care for nothing except to do just what he bade her do, knowing it was right.  So when he said at last, “You must go back to New York; this is no place for you,” she offered no remonstrance; but when he continued, “And you must go to-night; that is, you must take the early morning train, so as to reach the city before any one has had a chance to read the letter,” she demurred at once.  “She must see mother; she must see Helen; she must tell Helen who Genevra was.  She wanted her to know it, but no one else.  She must visit baby’s grave; she could not go back without it.”

“Not if it is right?” Morris asked, and Katy began to waver when he told her how much better it would be for her family not to know of this visit to him, as it would trouble them.  She could tell Wilford, if she liked, but he must not be permitted to find the letter, as he would if he returned while she was gone.  “I will go with you.  It is not safe for you to go alone,” he continued, feeling her rapid pulse and noticing the alternate flushing and paling of her cheek.

A fever was coming on, he feared, and it must not be there with him, for more reasons than one.  She must return to New York, or, failing to do that, he must take her across the fields to the farmhouse before the coming dawn.

“Are you sick, Katy?” he asked, as she appeared to be growing stupid.

“Not sick, no; only so tired, so sleepy,” and the heavy lids closed over the dull eyes, while Katy’s head still lay upon the cushioned arm of the large chair.