She, Susan, would be old some day, might be sick and weak any day; there might be a suffering child.  What then?  What consolation for a woman who set her feet deliberately in the path of wrong?  Not even a right to the consolation these others had, to the strong arm and the heartening voice at the day’s end.  And the child—­what could she teach a child of its mother?

“But I might not have one,” said Susan to herself.  And instantly tears of self-pity bowed her head over the little towel-rack, and turned her heart to water.  “I love children so—­and I couldn’t have children!” came the agonized thought, and she wept bitterly, pressing her eyes against the smooth folds of the towel.

“Come now, come now,” said Ann O’Connor, sympathetic but not surprised.  “You mustn’t feel that way.  Dry your eyes, dear, and come up on deck.  We’ll be casting off any moment now.  Think of meeting your good father—–­”

“Oh, Daddy!—–­” The words were a long wail.  Then Susan straightened up resolutely.

“I mustn’t do this,” she said sensibly.  “I must find Mr. Bocqueraz.”

Suddenly it seemed to her that she must have just the sight and touch of Stephen or she would lose all self-control.  “How do I get to the library?” she asked, white lipped and breathing hard.

Sympathetic Mrs. O’Connor willingly directed her, and Susan went quickly and unseeingly through the unfamiliar passageway and up the curving staircase.  Stephen—­said her thoughts over and over again—­ just to get to him,—­to put herself in his charge, to awaken from the nightmare of her own fears.  Stephen would understand—­would make everything right.  People noticed her, for even in that self-absorbed crowd, she was a curious figure,—­a tall, breathless girl, whose eyes burned feverishly blue in her white face.  But Susan saw nobody, noticed nothing.  Obstructions she put gently aside; voices and laughter she did not hear; and when suddenly a hand was laid upon her arm, she jumped in nervous fright.

It was Lydia Lord who clutched her eagerly by the wrist, homely, excited, shabbily dressed Lydia who clung to her, beaming with relief and satisfaction.

“Oh, Sue,—­what a piece of good fortune to find you!” gasped the little governess.  “Oh, my dear, I’ve twisted my ankle on one of those awful deck stairways!” she panted.  “I wonder a dozen people a day don’t get killed on them!  And, Sue, did you know, the second gong has been rung?  I didn’t hear it, but they say it has!  We haven’t a second to lose—­seems so dreadful—­and everyone so polite and yet in such a hurry—­this way, dear, he says this way—­My! but that is painful!”

Dashed in an instant from absolute security to this terrible danger of discovery, Susan experienced something like vertigo.  Her senses seemed actually to fail her.  She could do only the obvious thing.  Dazed, she gave Lydia her arm, and automatically guided the older woman toward the upper deck.  But that this astounding enterprise of hers should be thwarted by Lydia Lord!  Not an earthquake, not a convulsed conspiracy of earth and sea, but this little teacher, in her faded little best, with her sprained ankle!