And before I could speak or think she tore the document in two, and then across again, and scattered the four pieces on the floor.

“Tell Guy, please,” she continued, “what I have done, and that I never meant to take it, after—­after—­that—­you know—­and that I did not care for money only as father taught me I must have it, and that I am sorry he ever saw me, and I never really wanted to be married and can’t be his wife again till I do.”

She spoke as if Guy would take her back of course if she only signified her wish to come, and this kept me angry, though I was beginning to soften a little with this unexpected phase of her character, and I might have suffered her to stay till morning if she had signified a wish to do so, but she did not.

“I suppose I must go now if I would catch the train,” she said, moving toward the door.  “Good-by, Fanny.  I am sorry I ever troubled you.”

She held her little white, ungloved hand toward me, and then I came to myself, and, hearing the wind and rain, and remembering the lonely road to the station, I said to her: 

“Stay, Daisy, I cannot let you go alone.  Miss Hamilton will watch with Guy while I go with you.”

“And who will go with you?  It will be just as dark and rainy then,” she said; but she made no objection to my plan, and in less than five minutes Julia, who always slept in her dressing-gown so as to be ready for any emergency, was sitting by Guy, and I was out in the dark night with Daisy and our watchdog Leo, who, at sight of his old playmate, had leaped upon her and nearly knocked her down in his joy.

“Leo is glad to see me,” Daisy said, patting the dumb creature’s head, and in her voice there was a rebuking tone, which I resented silently.

I was not glad to see her, and I could not act a part, but I wrapped my waterproof around her and adjusted the hood over her flowing hair, and thought how beautiful she was, even in that disfiguring garb, and then we went on our way, the young creature clinging close to me as peal after peal of thunder rolled over our heads, and gleams of lightning lit up the inky sky.  She did not speak to me, nor I to her, till the red light on the track was in sight, and we knew the train was coming.  Then she asked timidly.  “Do you think Guy will die?”

“Heaven only knows,” I said, checking a strong impulse to add:  “If he does, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you killed him.”

I was glad now that I did not say it.  And I was glad then, when Daisy, alarmed perhaps by something in the tone of my voice, repeated her question: 

“But do you think he will die?  If I thought he would I should wish to die, too.  I like him, Miss Frances, better than anyone I ever saw; like him now as well as I ever did, but I do not want to be his wife, nor anybody’s wife, and that is just the truth.  I am sorry he ever saw me and loved me so well.  Tell him that, Fanny.”