Harry, held at bay, rested his forehead against the edge of the door so his voice could reach her the better.

“But Willits isn’t going to die, Kate dear.  I have just left him; it’s only a scalp wound.  Dr. Teackle says he’s all right.  The shock stunned him into unconsciousness.”

“Oh, I don’t care what Dr. Teackle says!  It’s you, Harry!—­You!  You never once thought of me—­Oh, why did you do it?”

“I did think of you, Kate!  I never thought of anything else—­I am not thinking of anything else now.”

“Oh, to think you tried to murder him!  You, Harry—­whom I loved so!” she sobbed.

“It was for you, Kate!  You heard what he said—­you saw it all.  It was for you—­for nobody else—­for you, my darling!  Let me come in—­let me hold you close to me and tell you.”

“No!—­No—­no!  My heart is broken!  Come to me, mammy!”

The door shut gently and left him on the outside, dazed at the outcry, his heart throbbing with tenderness and an intense, almost ungovernable impulse to force his way into the room, take her in his arms, and comfort her.

The closed door brought him to his senses.  To-morrow, after all, would be better, he confessed to himself humbly.  Nothing more could be done to-night.  Yes—­to-morrow he would tell her all.  He turned to descend the stairs and ran almost into Alec’s arms.  The old man was trembling with excitement and seemed hardly able to control himself.  He had come in search of him, and had waited patiently at Kate’s door for the outcome of the interview, every word of which he had overheard.

“Marse Talbot done sont me fer ye, Marse Harry,” he said in a low voice; “he wants ye in his li’l’ room.  Don’t ye take no notice what de young mistis says; she ain’t griebin’ fer dat man.  Dat Willits blood ain’t no ‘count, nohow; dey’s po’ white trash, dey is—­eve’ybody knows dat.  Let Miss Kate cry herse’f out; dat’s de on’y help now.  Mammy Henny’ll look arter her till de mawnin’”—­to none of which did Harry make answer.

When they reached the bottom step leading to the long hall the old man stopped and laid his hand on his young master’s shoulder.  His voice was barely audible and two tears stood in his eyes.

“Don’t you take no notice ob what happens to-night, son,” he whispered.  “‘Member ye kin count on ol’ Alec.  Ain’t neber gwineter be nothin’ come ‘twixt me an’ you, son.  I ain’t neber gwineter git tired lovin’ ye—­you won’t fergit dat, will ye?”

“No, Alec, but Mr. Willits will recover.  Dr. Teackle has just said so.”

“Oh, dat ain’t it, son—­it’s you, Marse Harry.  Don’t let ’em down ye—­stand up an’ fight ’em back.”

Harry patted the old servant tenderly on the arm to calm his fears.  His words had made but little impression on him.  If he had heard them at all he certainly did not grasp their import.  What he was wanted for he could not surmise—­nor did he much care.  Now that Kate had refused to see him he almost wished that Willits’s bullet had found its target.