The gloom
behind her only emphasized her nervousness.
"I'll--I'll have to go!" she whispered suddenly, while the wind and the
slashing of sleety rain defied her. "It will be better out of doors, bad
as it is!"
The grim loneliness of four walls, compared with the dangers of the open,
was worse. But when Priscilla, trembling and panting, reached the door
and pushed, she found that the storm was pitting its strength against
hers and she could not budge it.
"Oh, well," she half sobbed; "if I must, I must." And she stealthily
tiptoed back to the warmth and light as if fearing to arouse something,
she knew not what, in the dim place.
There was no way of estimating time. The minutes were like hours and the
hours were like minutes while Priscilla sat alone. As a matter of fact,
it was after seven when steps, unmistakable steps, sounded on the porch
and carried both apprehension and relief to the storm-bound prisoner
inside.
"Thank heaven!" breathed she, and sprang to her feet. She was midway in
the room when the door opened, and, as if flayed forward by the lashing
storm, Jerry-Jo broke into the shadow and drew the heavy oak door after
him.
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