had been too hard on the girl. Willy told
himself it had been wrong to expect so much of her. She was--he must
look the stern fact in the face--she was a country girl, and no more.
Then was she not also the daughter of Simeon Stagg?

Yes, the sunshine had been over her when he looked at her before, and
it had bathed her in a beauty that was not her own. That had not been
her fault, poor girl. He had been too hard on her. He would go and
make amends.

As Willy entered the house, Sim was coming out of it. They passed
without a word.

"Forgive me, Rotha," said Willy, walking up to her and taking her
hand. "I spoke in haste and too harshly."

Rotha let her hand lie in his, but made no reply. After his apology,
Willy would have extenuated his fault.

"You see, Rotha, you don't know my brother as well as I do, and hence
you could not foresee what would have happened if we had done what you
proposed."

Still there was no response. Willy's words came more slowly as he
continued: "And it was wrong to suppose that whether Ralph were given
up or not they would leave us in this place, but it was natural that
you should think it a good thing to save this shelter."

"I was thinking of your mother, Willy," said Rotha, with her eyes on
the ground.

"My mother--true." Willy had not thought of this before; that Rotha's
mind had been running on the possible dangers to his mother of the
threatened eviction had never occurred to him until now. He had been
wrong--entirely so. His impulse was to take the girl in his arms and
confess the injustice of his reflections; but he shrank from this at
the instant, and then his mind wriggled with apologies for his error.

"To spare mother the peril of being turned into the roads--that would
have been something; yes, much. Ralph himself must have chosen to do
that. But once in the clutches of those bloodhounds, and it might have
meant banishment for years, for life perhaps--aye, perhaps even death
itself."

"And even so," said Rotha, stepping back a pace and throwing up her
head, while her hands were clinched convulsively,--"and even so," she
repeated. "Death comes to all; it will come to him among the rest, and
how could he die better? If he were a thousand times my brother, I
could give him up to such a death."

"Rotha, my darling," cried Willy, throwing his arms about her, "I am
ashamed. Forgive me if I said you were thinking of yourself. Look up,
my darling; give me but one look, and