"She won't. She considers it our part, and something we ought to do before he commits himself."

"Very well, then, Sarah, you must tell him. You can manage it so it won't by so--queer.

"That is just what I supposed you would say, Mr. Kenton, but I must say I didn't expect it of you. I think it's cowardly."

"Look out, Sarah! I don't like that word."

"Oh, I suppose you're brave enough when it comes to any kind of danger.

But when it comes to taking the brunt of anything unpleasant--"

"It isn't unpleasant--it's queer."

"Why do you keep saying that over and over? There's nothing queer about it. It's Ellenish but isn't it right?"

"It's right, yes, I suppose. But it's squeamish."

"I see nothing squeamish about it. But I know you're determined to leave it to me, and so I shall do it. I don't believe Mr. Breckon will think it's queer or squeamish."

"I've no doubt he'll take it in the right way; you'll know how to--"

Kenton looked into his hat, which he had taken off and then put it on again. His tone and his manner were sufficiently sneaking, and he could not make them otherwise. It was for this reason, no doubt, that he would not prolong the interview.

"Oh yes, go!" said Mrs. Kenton, as he found himself with his hand on the door. "Leave it all to me, do!" and he was aware of skulking out of the room. By the time that it would have taken him so long as to walk to the top of the grand stairway he was back again. "He's coming!" he said, breathlessly. "I saw him at the bottom of the stairs. Go into your room and wash your eyes. I'LL tell him."

"No, no, Rufus! Let me! It will be much better. You'll be sure to bungle it."

"We must risk that. You were quite right, Sarah. It would have been cowardly in me to let you do it."

"Rufus! You know I didn't mean it! Surely you're not resenting that?"

"No. I'm glad you made me see it. You're all right, Sarah, and you'll find that it will all come out all right. You needn't be afraid I'll bungle it. I shall use discretion. Go--"

"I shall not stir a step from this parlor! You've got back all your spirit, dear," said the old wife, with young pride in her husband. "But I must say that Ellen is putting more upon you than she has any right to. I think she might tell him herself."

"No, it's our business--my business. We allowed her to get in for it.

She's quite right about it. We must not let him commit himself to her till he knows the thing that most puts her to shame. It isn't enough for us to say that it was really no shame. She feels that it casts a sort of stain--you know what I mean, Sarah, and I believe I can make this young man know. If I can't, so much the worse for him. He shall never see Ellen again."

"Oh, Rufus!"

"Do you think he would be worthy of her if he couldn't?"

"I think Ellen is perfectly ridiculous."

"Then that shows that I am right in deciding not to leave this thing to you. I feel as she does about it, and I intend that he shall."

"Do you intend to let her run the chance of losing him?"

"That is what I intend to do."

"Well, then, I'll tell you what: I am going to stay right here. We will both see him; it's right for us to do it." But at a rap on the parlor door Mrs. Kenton flew to that of her own room, which she closed upon her with a sort of Parthian whimper, "Oh, do be careful, Rufus!"

Whether Kenton was careful or not could never be known, from either Kenton himself or from Breckon. The judge did tell him everything, and the young man received the most d.a.m.ning details of Ellen's history with a radiant absence which testified that they fell upon a surface sense of Kenton, and did not penetrate to the all-pervading sense of Ellen herself below. At the end Kenton was afraid he had not understood.

"You understand," he said, "that she could not consent to see you before you knew just how weak she thought she had been." The judge stiffened to defiance in making this humiliation. "I don't consider, myself, that she was weak at all."

"Of course not!" Breckon beamed back at him.

"I consider that throughout she acted with the greatest--greatest--And that in that affair, when he behaved with that--that outrageous impudence, it was because she had misled the scoundrel by her kindness, her forbearance, her wish not to do him the least shadow of injustice, but to give him every chance of proving himself worthy of her tolerance; and--"

The judge choked, and Breckon eagerly asked, "And shall I--may I see her now?"

"Why--yes," the judge faltered. "If you're sure--"

"What about?" Breckon demanded.

"I don't know whether she will believe that I have told you."

"I will try to convince her. Where shall I see her?"

"I will go and tell her you are here. I will bring her--"

Kenton pa.s.sed into the adjoining room, where his wife laid hold of him, almost violently. "You did it beautifully, Rufus," she huskily whispered, "and I was so afraid you would spoil everything. Oh, how manly you were, and how perfect he was! But now it's my turn, and I will go and bring Ellen--You will let me, won't you?"

"You may do anything you please, Sarah. I don't want to have any more of this," said the judge from the chair he had dropped into.

"Well, then, I will bring her at once," said Mrs. Kenton, staying only in her gladness to kiss him on his gray head; he received her embrace with a superficial sultriness which did not deceive her.

Ellen came back without her mother, and as soon as she entered the room, and Breckon realized that she had come alone, he ran towards her as if to take her in his arms. But she put up her hand with extended fingers, and held him lightly off.

"Did poppa tell you?" she asked, with a certain defiance. She held her head up fiercely, and spoke steadily, but he could see the pulse beating in her pretty neck.

"Yes, he told me--"

"And--well?"

"Oh, I love you, Ellen--"

"That isn't it. Did you care?"

Breckon had an inspiration, an inspiration from the truth that dwelt at the bottom of his soul and had never yet failed to save him. He let his arms fall and answered, desperately: "Yes, I did. I wished it hadn't happened." He saw the pulse in her neck cease to beat, and he swiftly added, "But I know that it happened just because you were yourself, and were so--"

"If you had said you didn't care," she breathlessly whispered, "I would never have spoken to you." He felt a conditional tremor creeping into the fingers which had been so rigid against his breast. "I don't see how I lived through it! Do you think you can?"

"I think so," he returned, with a faint, far suggestion of levity that brought from her an imperative, imploring--

"Don't!"

Then he added, solemnly, "It had no more to do with you, Ellen, than an offence from some hateful animal--"

"Oh, how good you are!" The fingers folded themselves, and her arms weakened so that there was nothing to keep him from drawing her to him.