"I didn't mean to scream," said Katy Gaumer. "I didn't see you at first and I was frightened. I thought it was some stranger."
"It is I," said David, gruffly. Katy's figure had seemed like an apparition in the dim light; he had been horribly startled.
"I want to see you, David," said Katy, hesitatingly. "I have something I must talk to you about."
"I'll make a light inside."
"I'd rather talk here," said Katy. "I'll sit here on the step. I don't believe any one will come."
David offered her a chair. The blood was pounding in his temples, his wrists felt weak.
Katy had already seated herself on the low step. David sat on a chair on the porch; he could see her as she propped her elbows on her knees and made a cup for her chin with her hands. David breathed deeply; old habit was reasserting itself. Then he saw that Katy was trembling; to his amazement he heard her crying.
"You aren't well, Katy!"
"Yes," said Katy. "But I have a duty to do. It is hard. It nearly kills me."
David's thoughts leaped wildly from one possibility to another. What had she done? What could she have done? Here was Katy in a new light, weeping, distressed.