For an instant Mrs. Porter stood staring at her daughter, and then, as if to escape her glance, she turned and went slowly into Cynthia's room.
“Sh!” she said; “don't wake your pa.” And, seeing Cynthia's lamp burning low, she blew down the chimney and put it out. The room was now dark save for the moonlight that struggled in at the windows on each side of the drawn shades.
“Mother, you've got to tell me,” Cynthia demanded, as she leaned the cumbersome weapon against the wall and groped towards the still, white figure; “what were you going to do with that gun?”
Mrs. Porter said nothing, but moved backward to Cynthia's bed and, with a groan, sat down on it.
“Mother”—Cynthia leaned over her, a horrible fear gripping her heart-cords—“what were you about to do?”
“I don't know as I am obliged to tell you or anybody,” Mrs. Porter said, doggedly.
“Mother”—Cynthia sat down by the old woman and put her arm about the gaunt figure—“what were you going to do?”
“I was going to get out of my trouble, if you will know,” Mrs. Porter said, looking her daughter defiantly in the face.
“Your trouble, mother?”
“Yes, I've borne it as long as I can. Huh! you can't guess how much I know. I was awake last Friday night and overheard your plan to run off with Nelson Floyd. I was in a yard of you, crouched down behind the rose-bushes. You said you'd decide by to-night, and ever since then I've been tortured like a condemned soul. That's what affected my brain to-day. It wasn't the sun. Since that awful hour I have been praying God to spare you—to have mercy on my misguided child, and I hoped He would do it, but to-night, while you were putting the dishes away, I came in here and saw your packed valise, and knew you had concluded to leave. Then—then I decided to—to go like Sister Martha did. I was going out in the meadow, by the creek, where it was quiet. I couldn't bear the thought of having to face all those curious people who will throng the house to-morrow to find out about your disgrace.”