Mollie had knotted her bonnet strings with nervous, trembling fingers. She was thrilling through with mortification. She had been bold, and she had disgusted his fastidious taste, and she had not meant it. She was so grateful, and she loved him so dearly, but she never would offend in that way again.
Mr. Ingelow offered her his arm, but she drew back.
"I will follow you," she said, in a low voice, shrinking painfully into herself.
He said no more, but led the way. Mrs. Sharpe went after, Miss Dane last. No sound broke the stillness of the house. They might have been in their beds for all the noise they made.
"I hope it's all right," Mrs. Sharpe said, with a very uneasy face; "but I feel scared."
"You needn't, then," answered Mr. Ingelow; "they're safe enough. They'll be all alive in two or three hours from now, and will never know what ailed them. Save your sympathy, Susan, for time of need."
They went down-stairs, out-of-doors, into the cool, bright moonlight. Mollie Dane drew a long, long breath of unspeakable thankfulness as she breathed the fresh, free air once more.
"Thank Heaven," she thought, "and—Hugh Ingelow!"
They reached the garden gate; it stood wide; they passed out, and the artist closed it securely after him.
"'Safe bind, safe find!' Now, Miss Dane, take my arm, and let us see you step out. I have a trap waiting down the road. Neat thing this in the way of moonlight, isn't it?"