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"Like horses . . . cows . . ." she whispered to herself; "kicking and horning. . . ."

She found herself again doubling and pulling at the check for her month's pay. She did not know when she had picked it up. As she stared at her check, she suddenly remembered her plan to get it cashed. This feeble plan brought her a little relief from the abject terror into which the thought of the whitecaps had plunged her.

She looked at her little clock to see how soon would come the supper hour when she could steal out of the hotel to Mrs. Biggers. The good woman would surely plan some way of escape for her.

In the vague relief this brought her she became aware that the afternoon was wearing away, and of the emptiness of the upper story of the boarding house. Suddenly it seemed that Abner must be in his room waiting to come to her. A profound desire for Abner to come to her and protect her rushed over the girl. If he would only marry her and save her as Zed Parrum did the Tolbert girl! If Abner only would come!

She went to her bed, fell on her knees, and prayed God to send her lover to her rescue.

"O God, put it in his heart to come to me to-night! O God, I need him, send him, put it in his heart. . . ."

But she felt as if she were trying to project her prayer into some hard, impenetrable space. The fly-specked ceiling seemed to cut off her pleas; in her memory swam the words of a text, "The prayer of the unrighteous availeth nothing."

It grew upon the girl with a sense of horror that even God had deserted her.

She got to her feet and ceased weeping. After all, she was bad. She wiped her eves and looked with swollen, tear-bleared face at the clock. It was six o'clock, the hour when the village was at supper.

The necessity of action brought its relief. She bathed her face, powdered away the stains, then took her handbag, put the check for her month's salary in her purse, and tiptoed silently out of the room.