"Afraid of whom, Carlia?"

"Don't you know? Of course you don't know. I--"

"Sit down here, Carlia." He brought a chair; but she took it nearer the
open window, and he pushed up the blind that the cool air might the more
freely enter. The sun was nearing the western hills, and the evening
sounds from the yard came to them. He drew a chair close to hers, and
sat down by her, looking silently into the troubled face.

"I'm a sight," she said, coming back to the common, everyday cares as
she tried to get her hair into order.

"No, you're not. Never mind a few stray locks of hair. Never mind that
tear-stained face. I have something to tell you."

"Yes?"

"You said you were afraid, afraid of Mr. Jack Lamont."

"Yes," she whispered.

"Well, you never need be afraid of him again."

"I--I don't understand."

"Jack Lamont is dead."

She gave a startled cry.