ficult for me to ask you. I must go to Willow Brook—I must go now, to-night! And I—I have no money."
"Do you mean Willow Brook in Westchester?" he asked, astonished. "There is no train at this hour of the morning!"
"Then—then what am I to do?" she faltered. "I cannot stay another moment in that house."
After a silence he said, "Are you afraid of anybody in that house?"
"There is nobody in the house," she said, with a shudder; "my mother is in Westchester; all the household are there. I—I came back—a few moments ago—unexpectedly—" She stammered, and winced under his keen scrutiny; then the pallor of utter despair came into her cheeks, and she hid her white face in her hands.
Hetherford watched her for a moment.
"I don't exactly understand," he said, gently, "but I'll do anything I can for you. I'll go to the club and get my raincoat; I'll go to the stables and get a cab; I haven't any money with me, but it would take only a few minutes for me to drive to the club and get some. . . . Please don't be distressed; I'll do anything you desire."
She dropped her arms with a hopeless gesture.
"But you say there is no train!"
"You could drive to the house of some of your friends—"
"No, no! Oh, my friends must never know of this!"
"I see," he said, gravely.
"No, you don't see," she said, unsteadily. "The truth is that I am almost frightened to death."
"Can you not tell me what has frightened you so?"
"If I tried to tell you, you would think me mad—you would indeed—"
"Try," he said, soothingly.
"Why—why, it startled me to find myself in this house," she began. "You see, I didn't expect to come here; I didn't really want to come here," she added, piteously. "Oh, it is simply dreadful to come—like this!" She glanced fearfully over her shoulder at the lighted doorway above, then turned to Hetherford as though dazed.
"Tell me," he said, in a quiet voice.
"Yes—I'll tell you. At first it was all dark—but I must have known I was in my own room, for I felt around on the dresser for the matches and lighted a candle. And when I saw that it was truly my own room, and when I caught sight of my own face in the mirror, it terrified me—" She pressed her fingers to her cheeks with a shudder. "Then I ran down-stairs and lighted the gas in the hall and peered into the mirror; and I saw a face there—a face like my own—"
Pale, voiceless, she leaned on the bronze balustrade, fair head drooping, lids closed.
Presently, eyes still closed, she said, "You will not leave me alone here—will you—" Her voice died to a whisper.
"No—of course not," he replied, slowly.
There was an interval of silence; she passed her hand across her eyes and raised her head, looking up at the stars.
"You see," she murmured, "I dare not be alone; I dare not lose touch with the living. I suppose you think me mad, but I am not; I am only stunned. Please stay with me."
"Of course," he said, in a soothing voice. "Everything will come out all right—"
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly. I don't quite know what to say—how to reassure you and offer you any help—"
He fell silent, standing there on the sidewalk, worrying his short mustache. The situation was a new one to him.
"Suppose," he suggested, "that you try to take a little rest. I'll sit down on the steps—"
She looked at him in wide-eyed alarm. "Do you mean that I should go into that house—alone!"
"Well—you oughtn't to stand on the steps all night. It is nearly three o'clock. You are frightened and nervous. Really you must go in and—"
"Then you must come too," she said, desperately. "This nightmare is more than I can endure alone. I'm not a coward; none of my race are. But I need a living being near me. Will you come?"
He bowed. She turned, hastily gathering her filmy gown, and mounted the shadowy steps without a sound; and he
