“Oh, what?  Tell me, and I would do it at any cost.”

“Will you?” and he came nearer.  “At the cost of yourself?”

She thrilled all over, and convulsively grasped the arm of her chair.

“Would not a son be the best person to shield her from annoyance,” he added, trying for his usual tone, but failing, he exclaimed, “Rachel, Rachel, let me!”

She put her hands over her face, and cried, “Oh! oh!  I never thought of this.”

“No,” he said, “and I know what you do think of it, but indeed you need not be wasted.  Our women and children want so much done for them, and none of our ladies are able or willing.  Will you not come and help me?”

“Don’t talk to me of helping!  I do nothing but spoil and ruin.”

“Not now!  That is all gone and past.  Come and begin afresh.”

“No, no, I am too disagreeable.”

“May not I judge for myself?” he said, drawing nearer, and his voice falling into tremulous tenderness.

“Headstrong—­overbearing.”

“Try,” and his smile overbore her.

“Oh no, no, nobody can bear me!  This is more than you—­you ought to do—­than any one should,” she faltered, not knowing what she said.

“Than any one to whom you were not most dear!” was the answer, and he was now standing over her, with the dew upon his eyelashes.

“Oh, that can’t be.  Bessie said you always took up whatever other people hated, and I know it is only that—­”

“Don’t let Bessie’s sayings come between us now, Rachel.  This goes too deep,” and he had almost taken her hand, when with a start she drew it back, saying, “But you know what they say!”

“Have they been stupid enough to tell you?” he exclaimed.  “Confute them then, Rachel—­dolts that can’t believe in self-devotion!  Laugh at their beards.  This is the way to put an end to it!”

“Oh no, they would only detest you for my sake.  I can’t,” she said again, bowed down again with shame and dejection.

“I’ll take care of that!” he said with the dry tone that perhaps was above all reassurance, and conquered her far enough to enable him to take possession of the thin and still listless hand.

“Then,” he said, “you will let me take this whole matter in hand; and if the worst comes to the worst, we will make up to the charity out of the Indian money, without vexing the mother.”

“I can’t let you suffer for my miserable folly.”

“Too late to say that!” he answered; and as her eyes were raised to him in startled inquiry, he said gravely, “These last weeks have shown me that your troubles must be mine.”

A hand was on the door, and Rachel fled, in time to screen her flight from Miss Wellwood, whom Alick met with his usual undisturbed front, and inquiries for Mrs. Curtis.

That good lady was in the town more worried than flattered by the numerous inquiries after Rachel’s health, and conscious of having gone rather near the wind in making the best of it.  She had begun to dread being accosted by any acquaintance, and Captain Keith, sauntering near the archway of the close, was no welcome spectacle.  She would have passed him with a curt salutation, but he grasped her hand, saying, “May I have a few words with you?”