"There is no one here," whispered Constance, in tones of terrifying disappointment.

Up to that time she had religiously kept her promise to observe the strictest silence, but when in the dim light produced by the match, her eyes swiftly took in the untenanted room, her heart sank in chilly numbness.

Virginia noted the famished, haunted look that had crept into her eyes, and as she turned away with a fresh pang in her heart, discovered the bottle and tumbler on the table.

It suggested a clue, and she replied, in low tones, and in the most matter-of-fact manner, that, surprised herself, "He must be intoxicated, the beast."

The coolness of the utterance had the effect, in a measure, of rea.s.suring Constance, who then, discovering a closed door directly in front, breathlessly exclaimed: "That door must open to another room."

It was at that moment that the light died out. Virginia stood stock still and listened. She pressed her left hand tight against her heart to still the terrible throbbing.

She heard Constance grope her way to the part.i.tion door. She heard the nervous fingers on the framework. She heard the latch click.

"Be careful, dear. Oh, be careful, dear!" admonished Virginia, in a whisper of frenzied anxiety--and then she heard the door pushed open.

A moment of profound silence and then followed the sound of a step within. Constance stood beside Dorothy--with only the deep darkness and two feet of empty s.p.a.ce separating them.

Who shall say that the subtle power which impelled the mother on in the dense darkness, first to the door, then to open it, and then to step within beside her child, was not magnetic intuition?

Virginia softly followed her to the door, produced a match and rubbed it against the casing.

At that moment Constance was standing inside the threshold, her right hand still on the open door latch; her back to Virginia. She was looking straight ahead into the darkness.

The sc.r.a.ping of the match caused her to turn her head.

"Oh, Dorothy, darling!" was all that the poor heart-broken mother could utter.

So sudden and great was the transport called forth by the discovery of Dorothy quietly sleeping near her elbow, that her senses grew dizzy, and as she sank to the floor on her trembling knees, convulsively outstretched her hands to clasp the face of her child.

It was a favor of fate that placed them at that moment alone with the child, for whom Virginia was prepared to sacrifice her life to rescue.

A decree that paid homage to the act of a heroine.

True, the unhappy cause that impelled her to act was indirectly of her own making, and a sense of justice and remorse urged her to remedy it.

Nevertheless the act itself, for daring the rescue, was most heroic.

When Constance threw her hands out to clasp Dorothy, the child awakened with a start, and at the same time the match light became extinguished.

After her prayer, Dorothy laid down on the bunk without undressing, as had been her custom, since in the custody of Jack, and almost immediately fell asleep.

Her guileless little heart, cherishing confidence in his promise, provoked a smile of spiritual beauty that settled on her sweet young face--unflect by earthly misgivings. As she slept there came into her dream a vision of terraces, grown over with lovely flowers, and there were green, gra.s.sy plots and gorgeous colored b.u.t.terflies darting in and out among the flowers and golden sunshine. And out from somewhere, in the serene hazy distance, came the silvery song of her own canary bird. Where? And as she looked and listened, a b.u.t.terfly, oh, so large and beautiful, with semi-transparent rose, pearl wings dotted and fringed with emerald gems, hovered tantalizingly near her. She was tempted to catch it, but each time, though perilously near, it evaded her tiny clutch, and so drew her on over velvety lawns and gra.s.sy slopes to a babbling brook.

The prismatic winged thing fluttered over some pebbles and alighted on a slender willow twig. She stood on a stone, reached out to clutch the beauty, and just as her little fingers were about to close on it, the voice of her mother rang out in frantic warning--"Dorothy! Dorothy!"

And then her foot slipped, and as she was falling she felt herself suddenly clasped in strong arms, and borne upward, to awake with the cry of "Dorothy" ringing in her ears.

For a moment or two the child lay perfectly still, then gradually to her returning senses, the room smelled of tobacco smoke, and supposing that it was her captor's hand that clasped her face, said: "Oh, Mr.

Golda, the room is full of smoke!"

"Hush, dear," cautioned Virginia. "Your mother and Aunt Virginia are here."

"Oh, Mamma and Aunty!" joyfully exclaimed Dorothy, for she recognized Virginia's well-known voice, and sitting up, said:

"You've come to take me home, haven't you?"

Again the match light faded out.

The voice of Dorothy seemed to thrill Constance with new energy, for, with a frantic effort, she partially recovered her composure. She struggled to her feet, and in a rapture of thanksgiving, folded the child to her heart.

"Oh, my darling, my darling, please G.o.d, they shall never take you from me again. No, never again." And she kissed her with a pa.s.sionate joy, such as only a fond mother can feel for her helpless infant.

"Oh, mamma, I am so glad," responded Dorothy, clasping her little arms about her mother's neck.

"Dorothy, dear, where is he?" questioned Virginia, in a whisper.

"He was in the room when I came to bed, Auntie."

"He is not there now. He must be away." And a prospect of getting the child away without a struggle nerved her to instant action.

"Come," she exclaimed, "we must go at once. Don't speak, sweetheart.

Silence; come, Constance, quick!"

"Yes, yes; go on," was Constance's almost hysterical reply.

And so, with the child in her arms and Virginia pulling at her sleeves to guide and hasten her, they groped as cautiously as possible in the darkness, towards the cabin door.

They had proceeded a few paces when Virginia, in her eagerness, rubbed against the table; she stepped aside to clear it, and in doing so, jolted Constance.

It was then, under the strain of the stiffled emotions of the past few days, and the great excitement attendant on the present enterprise, together with the sudden reactionary joy of again clasping her child, that the first symptom of the mother's mental breakdown occurred.

"Oh," she faintly screamed, "the boat rocks," and she would have fallen to the floor had not a chair, the only one in the cabin, luckily stood nearby. She stumbled against it and sank upon the seat, with Dorothy tightly clasped in her arms.

Unable in the darkness to comprehend the pause, Virginia tugged urgently at Constance's sleeve.

"Come along, dear, we must be quick."

"Very well! Why don't you use the paddles?" replied Constance, in an altered tone, a strange metallic ring in her voice, and with less agitation than she had recently displayed.

Still unable, or rather refusing herself to think anything was wrong, and with a panicky impatience to be gone from the den, Virginia again urged Constance to hasten.

"Don't sit there, dear! Come along! We have not a moment to lose.

Shall I carry Dorothy?"

The answer startled her; a new terror had appeared.

"Don't you see that I am holding my heart tight. I cannot let go to help you. Make the boat go faster. Why don't you paddle."

Virginia's heart leaped to her throat. "Her mind is giving away," she exclaimed, with a gasp.