Had he heard?
The Sheriff's voice had been so loud.

She feared to enter, yet she knew that she must.

At last, she knocked timidly, and, when there was no answer, knocked again, louder.

Cautiously, she opened the door.
The man lay with his face to the wall,--to all appearances fast asleep.
She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the stranger for whom, without a shadow of reason,--one would have said,--she had violated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her seventy years.
To Auntie Sue, daughter of New England Puritanism, and religious to the deeps of her being, a lie was abhorrent,--and she had lied,--deliberately, carefully, and with painstaking skill she had lied.
She had not merely evaded the truth; she had lied,--and that to save a man of whom she knew nothing except that he was a fugitive from the law.
And the strangest thing about it was this, that she was glad.

She could not feel one twinge of regret for her sin.