Lifting it, she perceived upon it
an almost illegible scrawl which she made out to read thus:--
For Mrs. Scoville:
Do not go wandering all over the town for clews. Look closer home.
And below:
You remember the old saying about jumping from the frying pan into
the fire. Let your daughter be warned. It is better to be singed
than consumed.
Warned! Reuther? Better be singed than consumed? What madness was
this? How singed and how consumed? Then because Deborah's mind was
quick, it all flashed upon her, bowing her in spirit to the
ground. Reuther had been singed by the knowledge of her father's
ignominy, she would be consumed if inquiry were carried further
and this ignominy transferred to the proper culprit. CONSUMED!
There was but one person whose disgrace could consume Reuther.
Oliver alone could be meant. The doubts she had tried to suppress
from her own mind were shared by others,--OTHERS!
The discovery overpowered her and she caught herself crying aloud
in utter self-abandonment:
"I will not go to Miss Weeks. I will take Reuther and fly to some
wilderness so remote and obscure that we can never be found."
Yet in five minutes she was crossing the road, her face composed,
her manner genial, her tongue ready for any encounter. The truth
must be hers at all hazards. If it could be found here, then here
would she seek it. Her long struggle with fate had brought to the
fore every latent power she possessed.
One stroke on the tiny brass knocker, old-fashioned and quaint
like everything else in this doll-house, brought Miss Weeks' small
and animated figure to the door.
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