Ruth had spent the Sunday in a desperate struggle with the Governor. Long and tenderly he had pleaded for a pledge that would bind her. He had been sure of the note of hesitation and uncertainty in her voice when she left Albany on the day of his inauguration.

He finally left her with the firm avowal:

“I am going to win, Ruth. You might as well make up your mind to it.”

She smiled and said “Good-night.”

When she went upstairs a low sob came from the nursery and she tipped into the room.

For the past year Lucy would often sit for an hour at a time in reverie, and then lift her little face to her mother with the question:

“Where is Papa?”

Since their return from the railway accident she had never asked again. She only sat now and looked into her mother’s face with dumb pain.

Ruth soothed her to sleep, and was standing by her window trying to look out into the storm, which was lashing great sheets of wet snow against the glass.

The bell in the kitchen rang feebly.

She listened. Some one was fumbling at the front door, but the roar of the wind drowned the noise.

The bell rang loud and clear. She sprang to the stairs and went down with quick, nervous step. She fastened the chain-latch, opened the door an inch, and the dim light of the hall flashed on Gordon’s haggard, blood-stained face.

She flung the door open, drew him quickly within, slammed and bolted it.

Throwing her arms around his dripping form, she drew him down and kissed his cold lips.

“Frank, my darling, what is it?” she cried, in breathless amazement.

“You must help me, Ruth, dear,” he gasped. “We had a fight. I have killed Overman. If you can hide me for a few days, I can escape. I don’t deserve it—but I know that you love me—”

“Yes, yes,” she sobbed, kissing his hand, “through life and death, through evil report and good report!”

She put him to bed, washed and dressed his wounds. One of them, an ugly hole over his left lung, kept spouting bruised blood as he breathed. The dark eyes grew dim as she watched it.

“Oh! Frank, I must have a doctor,” she said, tremulously.

“No, Ruth; I can sleep now. I’ll be better in the morning. A doctor will know me.”

“But I have one I can trust,” she replied, pressing his hand.

He shook his head, closing his eyes.

“You can’t stand up against the wind and sleet. It’s awful. You can’t walk a block. Don’t try it.”

She watched his mouth twitch with pain.

“I will try it,” she answered, firmly. “Lucy will watch with you till I get back.”

When Ruth called and told her, the little hands clasped, a cry burst from her heart, and she kissed her mother impulsively.

While his daughter sat by the bedside gently stroking his big blue-veined hand, Gordon dozed in sleep and Ruth crept out into the wild night on her mission of love.

She was half an hour going and coming four blocks. Three times the wind threw her on the freezing pavements. When she climbed up her own steps her clothing was shrouded in an inch of snow and ice, her cheeks were red and swollen, and her hands were bleeding, but a smile played about her lips. The doctor was coming.

He assured her that the wounds were not fatal, and left instructions for dressing them. A few days of rest and all danger would be past.

Through the night, while the wind howled and moaned and roared, the mother and daughter sat by the bedside and smiled into each other’s faces.

The meaning of the tragedy had not yet dawned on Ruth. She only knew that her beloved had come, that she was soothing and ministering to him, and her heart was singing its song of triumphant love. The long night of the soul was over. The morning had come. The storm without was on another planet.

As they watched he began to talk in fevered half-dream, half-delirium words, phrases and broken sentences that revealed the inner yearnings and conflicts of his soul.

“Silly fool,” he muttered. “Beauty-marvelous—Ruth-dear dark eyes-I-love-her.”

As day approached, Ruth began to dread its message. Already she could see the officers at the door.

When day brok............