they brought her in out of the hot sun, and she had stumbled on the stairs and sobbed out—­Mrs. Seabury had picked her up and carried her up the stairs and comforted her... and told her what it meant—­these strange harsh men seizing her in the open sunshine, as they swept past—­covering her mouth with hard hands and hurrying her out of the city to this stifling place.  She loved Mrs. Seabury.  Perhaps they would put her in prison... and never let her out—­and Mollie would not get well.  The child gave a little, quick sob, in her thought, and lay very still.  Mollie had been good once, and wicked men had hurt her... and now her mother could not help her....  But Mr. Achilles said—­yes—­he said it—­no one should hurt her....  And with the thought of the Greek she lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night....  There was a long, light call somewhere across the plain, a train of heavy Pullmans pushing through the night—­the sound came to the child like a whiff of breath, and passed away... and the crickets chirped—­high and shrill.  In the next room, the breathing grew loud, and louder, in long, even beats.  Mrs. Seabury was asleep!  Betty Harris sat up in bed, her little hands clinched fast at her side.  Then she lay down again—­and waited... and the breathing in the next room grew loud, and regular, and full....  Mrs. Seabury was very tired!  And Betty Harris listened, and slipped down from the bed, and groped for her shoes—­and lifted them like a breath—­and stepped high across the floor, in the dim room.  It was a slow flight... tuned to the long-drawn, falling breath of the sleeper—­that did not break by a note—­not even when the brown hand released the latch and a little, sharp click fell on the air....  “Wake up, Mrs. Seabury!  Wake up—­for Mollie’s sake—­wake up!” the latch said.  But the sleeper did not stir—­only the long, regular, dream-filled, droning sleep.  And the child crept down the stair—­across the kitchen and reached the other door.  She was not afraid now—­one more door!  The men would not hear her—­they were asleep—­Mrs. Seabury was asleep—­and her fingers turned the key softly and groped to the bolt above—­and pushed at it—­hard—­and fell back—­and groped for it again—­and tugged... little beads of sweat were coming on the brown forehead.  She drew the back of her hand swiftly across them and reached again to the bolt.  It was too high—­she could reach it—­but not to push.  She felt for a chair, in the darkness—­and lifted it, without a sound, and carried it to the door and climbed up.  There was a great lump in her throat now.  Mr. Achilles did not know the bolt would stick like this—­she gave a fierce, soft tug, like a sob—­and it slid back.  The knob turned and the door opened and she was in the night....  For a moment her eyes groped with the blackness.  Then a long, quiet hand reached out to her—­and closed upon her—­and she gave a little sob, and was drawn swiftly into the night.

XXXIV