The Tacoma times. [volume] (Tacoma, Wash.) 1903-1949, 1916-06-01
CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XII.
what are you doing up
here?" the man asked impetu-
ously.
Have you any right to ask
that"
81 believe I have. You may
think l have no right, Di; yet
have, even IL ever so little"
Not one iota, Donald Smead!"
Mr.. Hanchett-Mr. Hanchett,
IL you pleased"
She breathed with difficulty.
There had always been music in
his voice, glamor in his use of it.
Her anger dimmed a little.
What are you doing up here
in this God-forsaken hole?"
ut is not God-forsaken!"
quietly.
II wish I could see your
face" He struck a match.
She did not finch. The flame
burned till 1t nipped his thumb.
Good nerves, Di. Not afraid of
anything, are you?"
She did not answer.
Truth Is, Di, l despise myself
as heartily as you do. But I've
made my bed-of hair-cloth and
thorn-and | must lie on it."
"Oh," she burst out passion
ately, "if you only had been
weak, harassed by the inability to
walk straight; IL only you had
been one of those pitiable things
who are always being led! But
no! You are as strong as STEEL"
steel. Steel, with a rotten
fiber running through it. What
are you doing up her alone?"
He caught her by the shoul-
ders. What is this man Gran
ford doing? Making love to you?
Answer"
She put her strong fingers I'M
der his and flung him back.
Crawford is a sneak"
THAT is not true"
HE plays the gentleman to his
friends and betrays them behind
their backs, and takes his whack
for doing it,"
"Such friends as try to cheat
the law-smugglers. He has told
me-"
Send him away. He may get
hurt"
IF you injure one hair of his
head, you'll rue it to the last
day"
There's a long score against
him. Well, If hurt comes to him,
do not put all the blame on me.
I'm not alone. The pater is in
Kingston. If he had his way
Crawford would go out to sea
drifting"
81 hate him, hate him with ev-
cry drop of blood in my body"
"All right; l have warned
you"
He swung about abruptly, and
was gone.
She never could tell how she
got back to the farm. In bed she
could not shut her eyes. The
voice of the man had awakened
the half-forgotten terrors of the
past.
The peace and serene happi-
ness of the white-walled convent,
and in her innocence she had
dreamed the world outside was
a grand fairy story waiting to be
read!
Then into the world, the great
house with its paintings and rugs
and tapestries and marbles; the
coming of the young men, of
middle-aged men, of old men,
and the fever of card playing;
and the vaguely growing wonder
why the men never brought their
wives with them. Came the
thunderbolt.
A young man, much in wine,
had thrown his arms about her
in the hall and kissed her; her
indignation; his laughter; the
terrible revelation.
ooh, come now! Don't be a
prunde. Do you suppose We chaps
would come here but for a chance
to see you and talk with you?
You mean to tell me you do not
know this is private gambling
house? The abominable scoun-
drels!"
She would always remember
that young man kindly.
His amorous attack had been
but a sequence of perfectly logi-
cal deductions, and when he had
learned the truth he had had
manhood enough to be ashamed,
to leave the house.
She had chosen the simplest
hat and gown. taken onIy the