terness. This had puzzled her in a curious way that she could not quite define. It was magnanimous, splendid of Harold Merton, but it did not seem to harmonise perfectly with his character—it was the attitude of a big man, big in every way—and Harold Merton could not be said to be that. In just what particular he failed, she could not tell—perhaps she was unjust; but her woman's sense told her that she was right, and that was a guide and mentor that had never failed her.
Her woman's sense! She smiled a little wistfully. Her woman's sense had told her another thing—that this great, strong figure she was watching now was innocent. But here there was something really tangible to support her intuition—and something, too, apart from Doctor Kreelmar's blunt, arbitrary, oft-repeated asseverations, and her father's concordance tacitly, rather than definitely, expressed. It was the man himself, his every look, his every act—the grave, fearless eyes that impelled faith and trust, the strong, brave face so full of power, the expression so indicative of clean, unsullied thought; his unfailing courtesy, his innate tact, his unobtrusive gratitude—he had shown her that so often, always seeming to understand and anticipate her wishes in so many different, simple, little ways about the garden.
What a pitiful tragedy it was! What was the mystery that lay behind it all, wrecking, ruining his life, condemning him to an existence, whose horror she was so well able to appreciate, that he bore so patiently and bravely? Oh, if he could only be made to speak, be shaken in that steadfast assertion of his guilt, she might do something! He had been so much in her mind and
