“Her own mother wouldn’t know her—­” said the woman slowly.

He met the look—­and waited.

“I tell you, I’ve done everything,” she said with quick passion.  “I’ve fed her and amused her and told her stories—­I don’t dare keep her any longer!” She touched the barrel beside them—­“I tell you, you might as well put her under that....  You’ll put her under for good—­if you don’t look out!” she said significantly.

“All right,” said the man sullenly, “what do you want?”

She was smiling again—­the round, keen smile, on its high frame.  “Let her breathe a bit—­like a child—­and run out in the sun.  The sun will cure her!” she added quickly.

“All right—­if you take the risk—­a hundred-thousand-dollars—­and your own daughter thrown to the devil—­if we lose—!...  You know that!”

“I know that, John—­I want the money—­more than you want it!” She spoke with quick, fierce loyalty.  “I’d give my life for Mollie—­or to keep her straight—­but I can’t kill a child to keep her straight—­not this child—­to keep her straight!” Her queer, round face worked, against the yellow light.

He looked at it, half contemptuously, and turned to the barrel.

“See if everything’s all right,” he said.  “If we’re going to take risks—­we’ve got to be ready.”

The woman lifted the lantern, and he pushed against the barrel.  It yielded to his weight—­the upper part turning slowly on a pivot.  Something inside swashed against the sides as it turned.  The man bent over the hole and peered in.  He stepped down cautiously, feeling with his foot and disappearing, inch by inch, into the opening.  The woman held the light above him, looking down with quick, tense eyes... a hand reached up to her, out of the hole, beckoning for the lantern and she knelt down, guiding it toward the waving fingers.  A sound of something creaking—­a hinge half turned—­caught her breath—­and she leaned forward, blowing at the lantern.  She got quickly to her feet and groped for the swinging barrel, turning it swiftly over the hole—­the liquid chugged softly against its side—­and stopped.  Her breath listened up into the darkness.  The door above creaked again softly—­and a shuffling foot groped at the stair.  “You down there—­Lena?” called an old voice.

She laughed out softly, moving toward the stair.  “Go to bed, father.”

“What you doing down there?” asked the old voice in the darkness.

“Testing the barrel,” said the woman.  “John’s gone down.”  She came to the foot of the stair.  “You go to bed, father—­”

“You better come to bed—­all of ye,” grumbled the old man.

“We’re coming—­in a minute.”  She heard his hand fumble at the door—­and it creaked again—­softly—­and closed.

She groped her way back to the barrel, waiting beside it in the darkness.

XXIX