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A heavy noise on the stairs just outside the parlour door shocked the two like the crack of doom. They got apart, with frightened faces. The girl went to the door, straightening her hair. Through the glass she could see a form lying on the steps. In Nessie's overwrought state this seemed tragic. She beckoned the jeweller and whispered, "Who do you suppose it is?"

With a trembling hand Belshue patted the girl reassuringly. "Some drunken fellow, nobody . . ."

But a certain prescience seized Nessie. She opened the door and stepped out on the piazza.

"Bring the lamp!" she ordered sharply.

"Nessie," he remonstrated, "I wouldn't . . ." But he picked up the lamp and followed her. When he got out on the piazza, Nessie was kneeling by the figure's side, her arms around its shoulders. She gasped out incoherently, "Oh, Lordy! I done this! God help me!" She swallowed, and her face worked in the lamplight. "Pick up his legs! Pick 'em up! We got to git him to bed!"

As she seemed on the verge of carrying the bulk alone, Belshue obeyed. When he set the lamp on the top step it showed the white face of a youth drunken to insensibility. A single crimson streak where he had fallen against the step marked his forehead. He was the very hero of her novels come to life—a handsome youth flinging himself to the dogs for her love!

Mr. Belshue picked up the limp legs. He caught them high up on the thighs to take all the weight possible off the girl. Together they pulled up the stairs past the night lamp on the newel post. When they had struggled to the top, they lurched slowly along the hallway to one of the bedroom doors. They got inside and placed the powerful figure on a bed which had not been made up that day. Nessie laid her handkerchief on the wounded forehead.

Then the two samaritans straightened, drew weary breaths, and without speaking walked out into the hall and downstairs again.