rom--well,
from what I pulled Tilly into. No, sir, Sam. I am not the man for her. I
can't give her enough of what she ought to have. She deserves
respectability, recognition as a lady in this or any other town. It is a
good thing that it happened so soon. It will blow over all the quicker.
She will--she will feel bad for a while, maybe, but time heals all
wounds. Now go home to your wife, Sam. She is not well, and--"

Cavanaugh stood up. "Yes, I'll go," he faltered, "but I'm going to talk
to Fisher and Black in the morning."

"Don't do it, Sam." John was smoking now. "I refuse to fight this case
before the public. It is bad enough as it is without forcing my poor
little--without forcing Tilly to hear more of it. She is too young and
sensitive to go through it, and I won't let her. If I don't appear it
will go through quietly. I know-- I heard of a case like that. The judge
picked a time when just a few people were present, and it was over right
away."

"John, are you in earnest?" Cavanaugh asked, at the end of his
resources, and he shambled out to the porch.

John followed and stood at his side. "I am, Sam; in fact, I insist on
it. I know Tilly's rights and she shall have them. I owe her a million
apologies. I'm doing all I can do. I wish I could do more. The time will
come, Sam, when she will--will not want to think of me. She will do her
best to forget me and all the rest of the awful mess."

"Hush, hush! I'll see you in the morning, after I've slept on it,"
Cavanaugh said, from the gate. "I don't see how I can give in to you, my
boy. You and Tilly were too happy for it to end like this."

CHAPTER XXXII

When the contractor was out of sight John sank limply into a chair on
the porch. The part he had played against his emotions had told on him.
Not the hardest day of physical toil could have so wrought upon his
nerves. Cavanaugh's steady tread was dying out in the distance. Afar off
a dog was baying. Suddenly, across the street against a scraggy growth
of sassafras-bushes, he saw something white moving. He thought that it
might be a dog, a sheep, or a calf. It moved again. It was coming toward
him. It approached the gate. It was Dora, and she timidly raised the
latch and crept into the yard.

"Don't get mad, brother John," she pleaded. "I saw him come. I was
hidden over there in the bushes. I couldn't go to sleep to save my life.
I tried."

He was too much undone to protest. Moreover, there was a dum