ome herself, but could not walk the
distance.

Adela was pierced with compassion.

'I will do my best,' she said, as soon as she could trust her voice. 'I
promise you I will do my best.'

She could not say more, and the children evidently hoped she would
have been able to grant their father's pardon forthwith. They had to
be content with Adela's promise, which did not sound very cheerful, but
meant more than they could understand.

She could not do more than give such a promise, and even as she spoke
there was a coldness about her heart. The coldness became a fear when
she met her husband on his return from the works. Richard was not in
the same good temper as at mid-day. He was annoyed to find Keene in
the house--of late he had grown to dislike the journalist very
cordially--and he had heard that the Rendal children had been to the
party, which enraged him. You remember he accused the man of impudence
in addition to the offence of drunkenness. Rendal, foolishly joking in
his cups, had urged as extenuation of his own weakness the well-known
fact that 'Arry Mutimer had been seen one evening unmistakably
intoxicated in the street of Wanley village. Someone reported these
words to Richard, and from that moment it was all over with the Rendals.

Adela, in her eagerness to plead, quite forgot (or perhaps she had never
known) that with a certain order of men it is never wise to prefer a
request immediately before dinner. She was eager, too, to speak at once;
a fear, which she would not allow to become definite, drove her upon the
undertaking without delay. Meeting Richard on the stairs she begged him
to come to her room.

'What is it?' he asked with small ceremony, as soon as the door closed
behind him.

She mastered her voice, and spoke with a sweet clearness of advocacy
which should have moved his heart to proud and noble obeisance. Mutimer
was not very accessible to such emotions.

'It's like the fellow's impertinence,' he said, 'to send his children to
you. I'm rather surprised you let them stay after what I had told you.
Certainly I shall not overlook it. The thing's finished I it's no good
talking about it.'

The fear had passed, but the coldness about her heart was more deadly.
For a moment it seemed as if she could not bring herself to utter
another word; she drew apart, she could not raise her face, which was
beautiful in marble pain. But there came a rush of such hot anguish as
compelled her to speak aga