"To come to Beaver Beach, do you mean?"
asked Ariel, leaning forward.

"Yes, ma'am. It all begun out there,--least-
ways it begun before that with me. It was all
my fault. I deserve all that's comin' to me, I
guess. I done wrong--I done wrong! I'd oughtn't
never to of went out there yesterday."

She checked herself sharply, but, after a
moment's pause, continued, encouraged by the grave
kindliness of the delicate face in the shadow of the
wide white hat. "I'd oughtn't to of went," she
repeated. "Oh, I reckon I'll never, never learn
enough to keep out o' trouble, even when I see it
comin'! But that gentleman friend of mine--Mr.
Nashville Cory's his name--he kind o' coaxed me
into it, and he's right comical when he's with ladies,
and he's good company--and he says, `Claudine,
we'll dance the light fantastic,' he says, and I kind
o' wanted something cheerful--I'd be'n workin'
steady quite a spell, and it looked like he wanted
to show me a good time, so I went, and that's what
started it." Now that she had begun, she babbled
on with her story, at times incoherently; full of
excuses, made to herself more than to Ariel, pitifully
endeavoring to convince herself that the responsibility
for the muddle she had made was not hers.

"Mr. Cory told me my husband was drinkin' and