s home it was dark, and he was still undecided as to
the exact course he should pursue. He opened the door with his
latch-key, and switched on the electric light. As he did so his mother
came into the hall. "Paul," she said, "what is the matter?"

"Nothing," he replied, trying to evade her gaze.

"But your face is bleeding. There's an ugly wound in your temple!"

"It's nothing," he replied. "Just a slight scratch, that's all."

"It's no scratch," said the mother. "Tell me, what is it, Paul? I
must know!" And she caught him by the arm.

"It's no use telling you, mother," he said, facing her. "And you
needn't trouble; I am not hurt very much."

The woman looked searchingly at his face, and knew by its extreme
pallor and the tremor of his lips that he was much wrought upon.

"Paul," she said. "This is Wilson's doing!"

"Is it?" he said, with an uneasy laugh. "Well, he shall pay for it,
anyhow!"

"I was right, then. It's true. Has he beaten you?"

"No, mother," he said. "I'm not to be beaten by Wilson."

"You shall not! You shall not!" And her voice was hoarse. "Tell me,
Paul, tell me. What is it? I must know--I will know!"

"Very well," he said. "If you will know, come into my study." And
then he described the scene which had taken place.

The woman fixed her eyes upon him, and kept them fixed all the time he
was speaking. Her face never moved a muscle, although her hands
clenched and unclenched themselves nervously. "And you'll pay him out
for this?" she said at length, when he had finished his story.

"Yes," he said, "he shall be paid out."

"But how? Tell me, Paul?"

"I have not quite made up my mind yet, mother. I must sleep on it."

"Sleep on it!" And there was an intensity in her tones which almost
frightened him. "Sleep on it--sleep on it! Will you let a man like
that get the better of you? Will you have a wound like that--a wound,
the marks of which you'll carry to your grave, and then say you'll
sleep on it? Paul, you're chicken-hearted."

"No," he replied. "I'm not chicken-hearted; but whatever is done,
mother, I must save Mary Bolitho's name from being dragged into the
mire. But you need not fear."

For an hour or more they talked, the woman asking questions, and Paul
answering them.

"Come," said his mother presently, "you'll be wanting some supper!"

"No," he said. "I want no supper, but I think I want to be alone,
mother. I have a great deal to think