volver, and would have
shot you if he had met you. I was expecting you home every minute, and
when I saw that I could pacify him by going right back with him I did
it."

"Oh, I see!" A great light broke on John. "Then it was really to save my
life."

"As I saw it, yes," Tilly replied. "I wrote to you once, after I got to
Cranston, but I learned afterward that father stopped the letter. I was
kept like a prisoner at home, John, until the court, under my father's
influence, and a narrow-minded jury had annulled our marriage. In spite
of that, I was ready to go to you and only waiting for a chance, when
the news of your death came. I didn't blame you for leaving. I knew that
you did it in despair of any other solution, and also to help poor
little Dora. That was a glorious thing to do, and God blessed your
effort. How is she, John?"

"Well, and happy--both of them. I had a letter yesterday. They like
their work and believe they are doing good."

"And you did that, John--you did it. When your own troubles were
greatest, you thought of that poor child. It was the noblest thing a man
ever did."

John shrugged his shoulders. "It was selfish enough. I needed a
companion, and she became one. For years we were like real brother and
sister."

"And then she left you all alone," Tilly sighed. "Oh, John, John, the
world has been unkind to you! You see, I have my children. Only a mother
can know what that means. I don't hear their voices now. Will you show
me where they were?"

He led her through the wood to the glade. A great deadening chagrin was
on him. He told himself that she had suddenly bethought herself of the
need of the protection of her children's presence. Parting the bushes on
the edge of the glade, he looked around and presently espied them asleep
in the shade of a tree. Little Tilly's head lay on a heap of flowers and
ferns, and Joel lay coiled on the grass at her feet.

"They often do that," Tilly beamed up at John. "We needn't wake them
yet--not just yet. I have a thousand things to say and ask, but my
thoughts are all in a jumble. How strange it seems to be here like this
with you again! I wonder, can there be any harm (in God's sight) in
telling the simple, honest truth? I've never done a conscious wrong in
my life, John. I did what I thought was right when I married you--when I
left you to go home with my father--when I secretly visited your
mother--when I finally married Joel--and now while I am here wi