“For God’s sake let me go—­I can’t stand it.  Let me go to hell—­that’s where I belong.  What do you bother with me for?  I’ve got a right.”

Once the doctor had to be called.  He shook his head but his eye met Miss Grower’s, and he said nothing.

“I’ll never be able to pull out, I haven’t got the strength,” she told Hodder, between sobs.  “You ought to have left me be, that was where I belonged.  I can’t stand it, I tell you.  If it wasn’t for that woman watching me downstairs, and Sally Grower, I’d have had a drink before this.  It ain’t any use, I’ve got so I can’t live without it—­I don’t want to live.”

And then remorse, self-reproach, despair,—­almost as terrible to contemplate.  She swore she would never see Mr. Bentley again, she couldn’t face him.

Yet they persisted, and gained ground.  She did see Mr. Bentley, but what he said to her, or she to him, will never be known.  She didn’t speak of it . . . .

Little by little her interest was aroused, her pride in her work stimulated.  None was more surprised than Hodder when Sally Grower informed him that the embroidery was really good; but it was thought best, for psychological reasons, to discard the old table-cover with its associations and begin a new one.  On occasional evenings she brought her sewing over to Mr. Bentley’s, while Sally read aloud to him and the young women in the library.  Miss Grower’s taste in fiction was romantic; her voice (save in the love passages, when she forgot herself ) sing-song, but new and unsuspected realms were opened up for Kate Marcy, who would drop her work and gaze wide-eyed out of the window, into the darkness.

And it was Sally who must be given credit for the great experiment, although she took Mr. Bentley and Hodder into her confidence.  On it they staked all.  The day came, at last, when the new table-cover was finished.  Miss Grower took it to the Woman’s Exchange, actually sold it, and brought back the money and handed it to her with a smile, and left her alone.

An hour passed.  At the end of it Kate Marcy came out of her room, crossed the street, and knocked at the door of Mr. Bentley’s library.  Hodder happened to be there.

“Come in,” Mr. Bentley said.

She entered, breathless, pale.  Her eyes, which had already lost much of the dissipated look, were alight with exaltation.  Her face bore evidence of the severity of the hour of conflict, and she was perilously near to tears.  She handed Mr. Bentley the money.

“What’s this, Kate?” he asked, in his kindly way.

“It’s what I earned, sir,” she faltered.  “Miss Grower sold the table-cover.  I thought maybe you’d put it aside for me, like you do for the others.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he said.

“Oh, sir, I don’t ever expect to repay you, and Miss Grower and Mr. Hodder!

“Why, you are repaying us,” he replied, cutting her short, “you are making us all very happy.  And Sally tells me at the Exchange they like your work so well they are asking for more.  I shouldn’t have suspected,” he added, with a humorous glance at the rector, “that Mr. Hodder knew so much about embroidery.”