"A rope!" he demanded, without paying any attention to us and diving

into corners of the room. "Good heavens, isn't there a rope in this

confounded house!"

He turned and rushed out, without any explanation, and left us staring

at the door.

"Bother the rope!" I found myself forced to look into two earnest eyes.

"Kit, were you VERY angry when I kissed you that night on the roof?"

"Very," I maintained stoutly.

"Then prepare yourself for another attack of rage!" he said. And Betty

opened the door.

She had on a fetching pale blue dressing gown, and one braid of her

yellow hair was pulled carelessly over her shoulder. When she saw me

on my knees beside the bed (oh, yes, I forgot to say that, quite

unconsciously, I had slid into that position) she stopped short, just

inside the door, and put her hand to her throat. She stood for quite a

perceptible time looking at us, and I tried to rise. But Tom shamelessly

put his arm around my shoulders and held me beside him. Then Betty

took a step back and steadied herself by the door frame. She had really

cared, I knew then, but I was too excited to be sorry for her.

"I--I beg your pardon for coming in," she said nervously. "But--they

want you downstairs, Kit. At least, I thought you would want to go,

but--perhaps--"

Just then from the lower part of the house came a pandemonium of noises;

women screaming, men shouting, and the sound of hatchet strokes and

splintering wood. I seized Betty by the arm, and together we rushed down

the stairs.




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