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 ways carried a weight about inside her. Her heart leaped if he took the least notice of her.

No, she saw it all clearly. She must run away. She couldn't go on, chained down like a slave. But if she ran away, she'd lose Philip for ever, and if she stayed, he might come back to her. The children belonged to both of them. They were a bond you could never break, the proof that once, for a little time, he belonged to her. She saw that he, too, was chained after a fashion. He belonged to her in a way he belonged to no other woman. In the sight of the Lord any other woman would always be a strumpet and a whore.

At last, as it was growing dark, she found herself sitting on a bench in the park before the new monument to General Sherman. It was raining and her coat was soaked and her shoes wet through. The rain ran in little trickles from her worn black hat. It was as if she had wakened suddenly from a dream. She wasn't certain how she came to be sitting on the wet bench with the heavy rain melting the snow all about her. She thought, "I must have been crazy for a time. I can't go on like this. I've got to talk to some one. I've got to . . . I've got to!" She began to cry, and then she thought, "I'll speak to the Reverend Castor to-night after choir practice. He'll help me and he's a good man. He'll never tell any one. He's always been so kind. It was silly of me to think things about him. I was silly to be afraid of him. I'll talk to him. I've got to talk to some one. He'll understand."

When the practice was finished, the Reverend Castor came out of the study to bid the members good-night. In the dim light of the hallway, as Naomi passed him, he looked at her and smiled. She saw that his hands