CHAPTER XV.

They had scarcely reached the shore when another small boat came gliding noiselessly along down toward the cabin. The boat contained Virginia and Constance. As they approached near, propulsion ceased, and the boat drifted along. Virginia turned half around on her seat, listened intently, and looked at the dark cabin, with eyes that fairly sparkled, in her effort to penetrate its interior. Slowly the boat drew along the platform. Quietly and cautiously they stepped out, and after fastening the line which held the boat to an iron ring which had been driven into one of the logs for that purpose, Virginia took Constance by the hand, which she felt tremble, and caused her to whisper: "Courage, dear." Then she tapped gently on the door.

Receiving no response, she tapped again, then tried the knob, and, to her amazement, the door opened.

For a moment they stood on the threshold, irresolute. A whiff of tobacco smoke brushed their nostrils.

Virginia timidly stepped within, followed closely by Constance. The darkness was intense, the stillness profound. "Whew!" Virginia ejaculated, in a whisper. "The den reeks with tobacco smoke. He must be asleep."

She softly closed the door and lighted one of the matches which she had been careful to provide herself with.

"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 reassuring 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 partition 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 space 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 scraping 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, grassy plots and gorgeous colored butterflies 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 butterfly, 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 grassy 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 God, they shall never take you from me again. No, never again." And she kissed her with a passionate 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.

There, then, the typhoid aftermath, which had been predicted would develop in time in Constance some strange and serious ailment, had found a lodgement, and now, bursting into life, lay siege to nature's most wonderful creation, the human brain. A moment of terrifying consternation followed.

"What shall I do now?" Virginia distractedly exclaimed.

"Paddle, paddle, paddle," feebly responded Constance.

Unmindful of the reply, Virginia stood as if transfixed with despair. She racked her brain for a way out. The situation was fast verging on the tragic.

"I will barricade the door!" she determined. "No, he may smash in the roof or sink us; I must get them away somehow."

"Oh, Constance, dear, try to be strong. Fight down this weakness. The boat is waiting. We must escape. Help me! Oh, God, help! Help!"

Her voice began in a subdued, frantic appeal, and ended in a sob of heart-rending despair for succor.

Like a shaft of sunshine bursting through a rift in the dark, lowering clouds of dismay, came the answer from Constance:

"I will! I will! Let me think! Oh, yes, we had better go now. Lead on! Hasten!" And she arose from the seat.

"Thank Heaven. The dark spot has gone," Virginia fervently exclaimed. "Her brain has cleared again."

How joyfully she struck another match further to accelerate their passage.

"Keep close to me, dear. Are you tired? Let me help you." And she placed her right arm about the waist of Constance, the match held forward in her left hand lighting the way. They had proceeded a few steps when the door opened. She drew back with a slight, terrified exclamation: "Oh!"

Jack Shore stood in the doorway.