"Dead easy," Druce explained smoothly. "I'm going back to Chicago on the evening train tonight. Now there's no use having trouble with your folks.

They wouldn't understand. You tell them you are going over to one of the neighbors', anything you can think of. That train slows down at the junction, right across the field there--you can always hear it whistle.

I'll be aboard the last car and I'll take you to Chicago with me. Then when we get there we--"

He broke off abruptly for Elsie started up from the bench and moved slowly away.

"What's the matter, girlie?" asked Druce.

"I--I don't know," the girl answered. "There isn't anyone here but just us, is there?"

"No," replied Druce, watching the girl closely, "why?"

"Because," she half whispered, "it seemed to me just then that someone touched me on the arm and said, 'Don't go!'"

Druce started. He looked carefully around. Then he laughed.

"You're hearing things tonight, Elsie," he said. "There's no one here but just you and me." He took her by the hand and was drawing her down to the bench when suddenly the front door of the cottage opened and Mrs. Welcome appeared.

"Elsie," she called. She stood framed in the lighted doorway, her eyes shaded with her hand. Like a shadow Druce faded from his seat beside the girl and dodged behind a tree out of sight, but in hearing.

"Is that you, Elsie?" asked the mother. "I thought I heard voices. Was Harvey here?"

"Yes," replied the girl in confusion, "he has just gone."

"You didn't see anything of your father, did you?"

Elsie shook her head. "You--you don't suppose dad's drinking again?" the girl asked anxiously.

"I suppose so," replied the mother wearily. "He hasn't been here all day."

"Oh, mother," the girl wailed. "What shall we do?" She sank down on the seat.

Her mother took her in her arms. "Don't cry," she said. "Come in and help me get supper."

"I'm waiting for Patience," replied the girl. "I'll be in the house in a moment. You go ahead with the work. When Patience comes we'll both help you."

Mrs. Welcome walked back into the cottage. As the door closed behind her Druce reappeared. He had not missed a word of the conversation between Elsie and her mother; as he now approached he outlined in his mind an immediate plan of attack.

"Elsie," he said softly. The girl started.

"I thought you had gone," she said. "No, don't touch me. I'm in trouble.

My father--" she covered her face with her hands.

"Yes, I know," said Druce. "I heard it all. Why do you stay here? Why do you--"

"It isn't that," retorted the girl, too proud to accept sympathy. "You made me lie to my mother. That is the first time I ever deceived my mother."

"Don't cry," said Druce. He drew her to the bench. "Come," he went on, "be sensible. Dry those tears. Come with me to Chicago."

"How do you know I could get a chance to sing in that place you told me of?" she demanded, open to argument.

Druce pressed his advantage. "Why," he said, "I'm interested in one myself. I think I could arrange to place you."

"Martin," said Elsie, "you said you were in the live stock business."

Druce hesitated a moment, toying with his cane. "I am," he said slowly.

"This cabaret--er--is a little speculation on the side. Come now, say you'll be at the train at eight o'clock."

The girl considered long.

"Think," said Druce, "with one hundred dollars a week you will be able to take your mother out of this hole. Why, you'll be independent! You owe it to your family not to let this opportunity escape you."

"I'll go," said Elsie.

"Good! Good for you, I mean," said Druce.

"On one condition," the girl went on.

"What do you mean?"

Elsie got up from her seat embarra.s.sed. "It all depends," she said.

"On what?" demanded Druce.

"On you, Martin."

"Me?" Druce laughed uneasily.

"Yes," said the girl walking close to him and looking him in the face.

"There is only one way I can go to Chicago with you."

"How's that, girlie?" was Druce's astonished question.

Elsie held up her left hand timidly. "With a plain gold ring on that finger, Martin," she said. She was now blushing furiously. She knew that she had virtually proposed to Druce. He laughed and something in his laugh jarred her.

"Oh, marriage," he said.

"You know that Martin, don't you? I couldn't go to Chicago with you any other way."

Druce took off his hat. "Elsie," he said, "you're as good as gold. I honor you for your scruples."

He paused to think for a moment. "I'll tell you," he said. "You come along with me and I'll marry you as soon as we reach Chicago. Meanwhile I'll telegraph ahead and arrange to have you taken care of by my old aunt. You'll be as safe with her as if you were in your own home."

"You promise to marry me?"

"Sure I do, girlie." He broke off bl.u.s.teringly. "What do you take me for?

Do you think I'd lure you to Chicago and then leave you?"

"Martin," said Elsie gravely, "a girl must protect herself."