but without anger.
"You can't stay here."

"I must--for a while. No. Don't talk about it, please, Tunis." Her
gesture had a finality to it which silenced the objections rising to
his lips. "Nothing you can say will change my determination. And you
must not come here again."

"What will people say?" he gasped.

The violet eyes blazed suddenly while she surveyed him. This was not
the girl he had known before. At least, she was not the same as
when he had seen her last. Even at that previous interview her look
and manner had not so reminded him of the girl he had sat beside on
the bench on Boston Common.

She was alone again. The flower of her nature that had expanded
while she lived her all too brief and happy life with the Balls was
now withered. She was hopeless again; she had become once more the
Sheila Macklin that he had met under such wretched circumstances at
that past time. But in spite of her helplessness and her
wretchedness, there was something in the girl's expression which
convinced Tunis Latham before he again spoke that nothing he could
say would in any degree change her determination.

"That confounded girl never should have been allowed to come back to
the house up there," he cried almost wildly. "Why did Elder Minnett
want to interfere? It was not his business! No one need have known
the truth."

"Don't you see, Tunis, that just because it was the truth it was
sure to become known? At least, the main points in the whole matter
were sure to come out. But if you are careful, if you are wise,
nobody need know more of your share in the transaction than I have
told already."

"Cap'n Ira asked me if it was true. He told me what you said.
Sheila, you ruined your own reputation with the old folks to save
me. Girl--"

"Did I have any reputation to lose, Tunis?" she interrupted, yet
speaking softly. "I could not save myself. I have tried to save you.
Don't be ill-advised; don't be foolish. Say nothing, and it will all
blow over--for you."

"You think I'll accept such a sacrifice on your part?" he demanded
fiercely.

"I am making no sacrifice. Nothing I can do or say; nothing you can
do or say; nothing anybody can do or say; will change my situation.
We need not both be ruined in the eyes of the community. Soon I will
get away. They will forget me. It will all blow over. You need not
suffer."

"What do you think I am?" he cried again. "Am I the sort of a
fellow, you think, to shelter myself behind