Seaforth understood her, and knew her pride.  “I think Harry gave me some of it.  You see, I never had a great deal.”

“Harry?” said Miss Townshead, with a trace of astonishment that was not quite free from disdain.

Seaforth moved his head.  “Yes,” he said.  “What I have told you I told him, and he seemed to think that one could live—­even that kind of thing—­down.  He is, you see, a somewhat exacting man, and that gave me the hope that you would be as merciful.”

“Still, you have not answered me.”

Seaforth flushed a little.  “I know what you mean—­but would even what I have told you warrant you thinking that of me?”

“I must know,” said the girl.

Seaforth was silent a moment.  “There is a distinction—­but it is difficult to draw,” he said.  “Well, I could not bear to think of you struggling on down here alone with everything against you.  There were times when it almost maddened me, and at last, though I knew it might cost me all I hoped for, I had to speak.”

The girl’s face softened.  “And there was nothing else.  You did not think that—­because of anything which had happened—­I should be more apt to listen?”

Seaforth was usually undemonstrative in bearing and speech, but he stood up stiffly, and his voice was a trifle strained.  “That is what I have been trying to make clear, and I can only give you my word that I did not,” he said.  “If I had had more courage I would have told you that story long ago.”

Nellie Townshead’s eyes were very gentle now.  “I felt I must make quite sure, because had it been otherwise I should never have forgiven you.”

“And,” said Seaforth slowly, “you can forgive the rest.  I can make no protestations, but if I have gone straight in this country it was you who helped me, and I should never have gone down into the mire if I had known you in the other one.  And now I have nothing, not even moderate prosperity to offer you.”

“You think that would have counted?” said the girl.

“No,” said Seaforth quietly, “not with you.  It is because I have so little to offer I venture to ask so much.  All the giving must be done by you.”

Seaforth had, though not an eloquent man, pleaded his cause efficaciously, for although his words might have been better chosen, the inference behind them was plain; and while parts of his story had brought the colour to the cheeks of his companion, his blameless life in Canada was a very acceptable offering since he owed it to her.  It is pleasant to feel oneself a refining influence, but it was not gratified vanity which stirred the girl.  She had a wide charity, and was one of those whose mission is to give without looking for a return.  She rose up slowly, and stood before him with eyes that had grown a trifle hazy.

“All that counts the most is yours still,” she said.  “And as to the rest—­I think it is done with, Charley.  You have lived it down.”