Mrs. Comstock gripped the hoe tighter and turning she went down the walk, and started across the woods to the home of Elvira Carney. With averted head she passed the pool, steadily pursuing her way. Elvira Carney, hanging towels across the back fence, saw her coming and went toward the gate to meet her. Twenty years she had dreaded that visit. Since Margaret Sinton had compelled her to produce the violin she had hidden so long, because she was afraid to destroy it, she had come more near expectation than dread. The wages of sin are the hardest debts on earth to pay, and they are always collected at inconvenient times and unexpected places. Mrs. Comstock's face and hair were so white that her dark eyes seemed burned into their setting. Silently she stared at the woman before her a long time.
"I might have saved myself the trouble of coming," she said at last, "I see you are guilty as sin!"
"What has Mag Sinton been telling you?" panted the miserable woman, gripping the fence.
"The truth!" answered Mrs. Comstock succinctly. "Guilt is in every line of your face, in your eyes, all over your wretched body. If I'd taken a good look at you any time in all these past years, no doubt I could have seen it just as plain as I can now. No woman or man can do what you've done, and not get a mark set on them for every one to read."
"Mercy!" gasped weak little Elvira Carney. "Have mercy!"
"Mercy?" scoffed Mrs. Comstock. "Merry! That's
