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To stoop, to break the vine, and to secure the melon were an instant’s work; but as she bent, the high corn before her waved violently and a big farmer-looking man in a slouch hat and shocking old coat sprang out and seized her by the arm, with a grip not painful but sickeningly firm, exclaiming as he did so:–

“Wal, I swan ter gosh, if ‘t ain’t a gal!”

Lina dropped the melon, and, barely recalling the peculiar circumstances in time to suppress a scream, made a silent, desperate effort to break away. But her captor’s hold was not even shaken, and he laughed at the impotence of her attempt. In all her petted life she had never been held a moment against her will, and it needed not the added considerations that this man was a coarse, unknown boor, the place retired, the time midnight, and herself in the position of a criminal, to give her a feeling of abject terror so great as to amount to positive nausea, as she realized her utter powerlessness in his hands.

“So you’ve been a-stealin’ my melons, hey?” he demanded gruffly.

The slight shake with which the question was enforced deprived her of the last vestige of dignity and self-assertion. She relapsed into the mental condition of a juvenile culprit undergoing correction. Now that she was caught, she no longer thought of her offense as venial. The grasp of her captor seemed to put an end to all possible hairsplitting on that point, and prove that it was nothing more nor less than stealing, and a sense of guilt left her without any moral support against her fright. She was only conscious of utter humiliation, and an abject desire to beg off on any terms.

“What do you go round stealin’ folks’s melons for, young woman? Don’t yer folks bring yer up better ‘n that? It’s a dodrotted shame to ’em, ef they don’t. What did ye want with the melons? Don’t they give yer enough to eat ter home, hey?”

“We were going to have some supper, sir,” she replied, in a scared, breathless tone, with a little hope of propitiating him by being extremely civil and explicit in her replies.

“Who was havin’ supper to this time er night?” he snorted incredulously.

“We girls,” was the faint reply.

“What gals?”

Had she got to tell where she came from and be identified? She couldn’t, she wouldn’t. But again came that dreadful shake, and the words faltered out:–

“Over at the Seminary, sir.”

“Whew! so ye ‘re one er them, are ye? What’s yer name?”

Cold dew stood on the poor girl’s forehead. She was silent. He might kill her, but she would n’t disgrace her father’s name.

“What’s yer name?” he repeated, with another shake.

She was still silent, though limp as a rag in his grasp.

“Wal,” said he sharply, after waiting a half minute to see if she would answer, “I guess ye’ll be more confidin’ like to the jedge when he inquiries in the mornin’. A night in the lock-up makes folks wonderful civil. Now I’ll jest trouble ye to come along to the police office,” and he walked her along by the arm toward the house.

As the horrible degradation to which she was exposed flashed upon Lina, the last remnant of her self-control gave way, and, hanging back with all her might against his hand, she burst into sobs.

“Oh, don’t, don’t! It will kill me. I’ll tell you my name. It’s Lina Maynard. My father is a rich merchant in New York, Broadway, No. 743. He will give you anything, if you let me go. Anything you want. Oh, please don’t! Oh, don’t! I could n’t! I could n’t!”

In this terror-stricken, wild-eyed girl, her face streaming with tears, and every lineament convulsed with abject dread, there was little enough to remind Arthur Steele of the queenly maiden who had favored him with a glance of negligent curiosity that afternoon. He stopped marching her along and said reflectively:–