Amos.  Mrs. Ebbsmith, when I came here tonight I was angry with Gertrude —­not altogether, I hope, for being in your company.  But I was certainly angry with her for visiting you without my knowledge.  I think I sometimes forget that she is eight-and-twenty, not eighteen.  Well, now I offer to delay our journey home for a few days, if you hold out the faintest hope that her companionship is likely to aid you in any way.

[Agnes, standing motionless, makes no response.  Amos crosses to her, and as he passes Gertrude, he lets his hand drop over her shoulder; she clasps it, then rises and moves to a chair, where she sits, crying silently.]

Amos. [By Agnes’ side—­in a low voice.] You heard what she said.  Saved by the mercy of Heaven.

Agnes.  Yes, but she can feel that.

Amos.  You felt so once.

Agnes.  Once—?

Amos.  You have, in years gone by, asked for help on your knees.

Agnes.  It never came.

Amos.  Repeat your cry!

Agnes.  There would be no answer.

Amos.  Repeat it!

Agnes. [Turning upon him.] If miracles could happen!  If “help”, as you term it, did come!  Do you know what “help” would mean to me?

Amos.  What—?

Agnes.  It would take the last crumb from me!

Amos.  This man’s—­protection?

Agnes. [Defiantly.] Yes

Amos.  Oh, Mrs. Ebbsmith—!

Agnes. [Pointing to the door.] Well, I’ve asked you both to leave me, haven’t I! [Pointing at Gertrude, who has risen.] The man she loves is dead and gone!  She can moralise—! [Sitting, beating upon the settee with her hands.] Leave me! [Amos joins Gertrude.]

Gertrude.  We’ll go, Amos. [He takes from his pocket a small leather-bound book; the cover is well-worn and shabby.]

Amos. [Writing upon the fly-leaf of the book with a pencil.] I am writing our address here, Mrs. Ebbsmith.

Agnes. [In a hard voice.] I already have it. [Gertrude glances at the book over AMOS’S shoulder, and looks at him wonderingly.]

Amos. [Laying the book on the settee by Agnes’ side.] You might forget it. [She stares at the book, with knitted brows, for a moment, then stretches out her hand and opens it.]

Agnes. [Withdrawing her hand sharply.] No—­I don’t accept your gift.

Amos.  The address of two friends is upon the fly-leaf.

Agnes.  I thank both of you; but you shall never be troubled again by me. [Rising, pointing to the book.] Take that away! [Sitting facing the stove, the door of which she opens, replenishing the fire—­excitedly.] Mr. Cleeve may be back soon; it would be disagreeable to you all to meet again. [Gertrude gently pushes Amos aside, and picking up the book from the settee, places it upon the table.]