iet
paths of the old square, the dogs at his heels. The greatest of all
barriers, he felt assured, would be Kate herself. He had seen enough of
her in that last interview, when his tender pleading had restored the
harmonies between herself and Harry, to know that she was no longer the
child whose sweetness he loved, or the girl whose beauty he was proud
of--but the woman whose judgment he must satisfy. Nor could he see that
any immediate change in her mental attitude was likely to occur. Some
time had now passed since Harry's arrival at his house, and every day
the boy had begged for admission at Kate's door, only to be denied by
Ben, the old butler. His mother, who had visited her exiled son almost
daily, had then called on her, bearing two important pieces of news--one
being that after hours of pleading Harry had consented to return to
Moorlands and beg his father's pardon, provided that irate gentleman
should send for him, and the other the recounting of a message of
condolence and sympathy which Willits had sent Harry from his sick-bed,
in which he admitted that he had been greatly to blame. (An admission
which fairly bubbled out of him when he learned that Harry had assisted
Teackle in dressing his wound.)

And yet with all this pressure the young girl had held her own. To every
one outside the Rutter clan she had insisted that she was sorry for
Harry, but that she could never marry a man whose temper she could
not trust. She never put this into words in answering the well-meant
inquiries of such girl friends as Nellie Murdoch, Sue Dorsey, and the
others; then her eyes would only fill with tears as she begged them not
to question her further. Nor had she said as much to her father, who on
one occasion had asked her the plump question--"Do you still intend to
marry that hot-head?"--to which she had returned the equally positive
answer--"No, I never shall!" She reserved her full meaning for St.
George when he should again entreat her--as she knew he would at the
first opportunity--to forget the past and begin the old life once more.

At the end of the second week St. George had made up his mind as to
his course; and at the end of the third the old diplomat, who had dared
defeat before, boldly mounted the Seymour steps. He would appeal to
Harry's love for her, and all would be well. He had done so before,
picturing the misery the boy was suffering, and he would try it again.
If he could only reach her heart through t