back to it. The words of Seth Wright were running roughshod through his mind. He looked sharply at Prudence. 

 “A mobocrat—our enemy—and you have taken favours from him—a minion of the devil?—shame!” 

 The girl looked up. 

 “He was kind; you don’t realise that he has probably saved their lives. Indeed, you must let him in and thank him.” 

 “Not I!” 

 The mother interposed hurriedly. 

 “Yes, yes, laddie! You know not how high-handed they have been. They expelled all but us, and some they have maltreated shamefully. This one has been kind to us. Open the door.” 

 “I dare not face him—I may not contain myself!” 

 The knock was repeated more loudly. The girl went up to him and put her hands on his shoulders to draw him away. 

 “Be reasonable,” she pleaded, in low tones, “and above all, be polite to him.” 

 She put him gently aside and drew back the door. On the threshold smiled the young captain he had watched from the window that morning, marching at the head of his company. His cap was doffed, and his left hand rested easily on the hilt of his sword. He stepped inside as one sure of his welcome. 

 “Good morning, Miss Prudence, good morning, Mr. Rae, good morning, madam—good morning—” 

 He looked questioningly at the stranger. Prudence stepped forward. 

 “This is Joel Rae, Captain Girnway.” 

 They bowed, somewhat stiffly. Each was dark. Each had a face to attract women. But the captain was at peace with the world, neatly uniformed, well-fed, clean-shaven, smiling, pleasant to look upon, while the other was unshaven, hollow-cheeked, gaunt, roughly dressed, a thing that had been hunted and was now under ban. Each was at once sensible of the contrast between them, and each was at once affected by it: the captain to a greater jauntiness, a more effusive affability; the other to a stonier sternness. 

 “I am glad to know you have come, Mr. Rae. Your people have worried a little, owing to the unfortunate circumstances in which they have been 

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