g man impulsively, hand outstretched. She was
glowing with delight, eyes kind and warm and glad. "That's the best yet.
Oh, Mr. Sanders, isn't it good?"

His impassive face gave no betrayal of any happiness he might feel in his
vindication. Indeed, something almost sardonic in its expression chilled
her enthusiasm. More than the passing of years separated them from the
days when he had shyly but gayly wiped dishes for her in the kitchen,
when he had worshiped her with a boy's uncritical adoration.

Sanders knew it better than she, and cursed the habit of repression that
had become a part of him in his prison days. He wanted to give her happy
smile for smile. But he could not do it. All that was young and ardent
and eager in him was dead. He could not let himself go. Even when
emotions flooded his heart, no evidence of it reached his chill eyes and
set face.

After he had come back from shaving, he watched her flit about the room
while she set the table. She was the competent young mistress of the
house. With grave young authority she moved, slenderly graceful. He
knew her mind was with the cook in the kitchen, but she found time to
order Keith crisply to wash his face and hands, time to gather flowers
for the center of the table from the front yard and to keep up a running
fire of talk with him and her father. More of the woman than in the days
when he had known her, perhaps less of the carefree maiden, she was
essentially unchanged, was what he might confidently have expected her to
be. Emerson Crawford was the same bluff, hearty Westerner, a friend to
tie to in sunshine and in storm. Even little Keith, just escaping from
his baby ways, had the same tricks and mannerisms. Nothing was different
except himself. He had become arid and hard and bitter, he told himself
regretfully.

Keith was his slave, a faithful admirer whose eyes fed upon his hero
steadily. He had heard the story of this young man's deeds discussed
until Dave had come to take on almost mythical proportions.

He asked a question in an awed voice. "How did you get this Miller to
confess?"

The guest exchanged a glance with the host. "We had a talk with him."

"Did you--?"

"Oh, no! We just asked him if he didn't want to tell us all about it, and
it seems he did."

"Maybe you touched his better feelin's," suggested Keith, with memories
of an hour in Sunday School when his teacher had made a vain appeal to
his.

His father laughed. "Maybe we did.