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I'll take them back with me. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Suddenly she had become afraid. The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. "Where are you going?" she asked. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. They fell into step again. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. .
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