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“Give me the keys,” she whispered. “Is it in there? Where is the plate? In that room? Give me the keys.”

As in a dream he handed her his keys. Through a lethargy which was almost a stupor he saw her enter his house; he heard her unlock the door of the room where his plates lay. After a moment she found a match and lighted the candles. Helm sat heavily on the steps, his head on his breast, dimly aware that she was passing and repassing, carrying bottles and armfuls of tools and paper and plates out into the darkness somewhere.

It may have been a few minutes; it may have been an hour before she returned to him on the steps, breathing rapidly, her limp gown clinging to her limbs, her dark hair falling to her shoulders.

“The plates and acids will never be found,” she said, breathlessly; “I put everything into the swamp. It is quicksand.”

For a long time neither spoke. At length she slowly turned away towards the gate, and he rose and followed, scarcely aware of what he was doing.

At the gate she stooped and pushed a dark object out of sight under the bushes by the fence.

“Let me help you,” he said, bending beside her.

“No, no; don’t,” she stammered; “it is nothing.”

He found it and handed it to her. It was her crutch; and she turned crimson to the roots of her hair.

“Lean on me,” he said, very gently.

The girl bit her trembling lip till the blood came. “Thank you,” she said, crushing back her tears; “my crutch is enough–but you need not have known it. Kindness is comparative; one can be too kind.”

He misunderstood her and drew back. “I forgot,” he said, quietly, “what privileges are denied to criminals.”

“Privilege!” she faltered. After a moment she laid one hand on his arm.

“I shall be very glad of your help,” she said; “I am more lame than I wish the world to know. It was only the vanity of a cripple that refused you.”

But he thought her very beautiful as she passed with him out into the starlight.