“You are wrong!” exclaimed Arnold.  “Indeed, indeed you are wrong!  It’s no excuse—­it’s the truth.  I was present when the message came about his father.”

She never heeded him, and never moved.  She only repeated the words

“He has deserted me!”

“Don’t take it in that way!” pleaded Arnold—­“pray don’t!  It’s dreadful to hear you; it is indeed.  I am sure he has not deserted you.”  There was no answer; no sign that she heard him; she sat there, struck to stone.  It was impossible to call the landlady in at such a moment as this.  In despair of knowing how else to rouse her, Arnold drew a chair to her side, and patted her timidly on the shoulder.  “Come!” he said, in his single-hearted, boyish way.  “Cheer up a little!”

She slowly turned her head, and looked at him with a dull surprise.

“Didn’t you say he had told you every thing?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you despise a woman like me?”

Arnold’s heart went back, at that dreadful question, to the one woman who was eternally sacred to him—­to the woman from whose bosom he had drawn the breath of life.

“Does the man live,” he said, “who can think of his mother—­and despise women?”

That answer set the prisoned misery in her free.  She gave him her hand—­she faintly thanked him.  The merciful tears came to her at last.

Arnold rose, and turned away to the window in despair.  “I mean well,” he said.  “And yet I only distress her!”

She heard him, and straggled to compose herself “No,” she answered, “you comfort me.  Don’t mind my crying—­I’m the better for it.”  She looked round at him gratefully.  “I won’t distress you, Mr. Brinkworth.  I ought to thank you—­and I do.  Come back or I shall think you are angry with me.”  Arnold went back to her.  She gave him her hand once more.  “One doesn’t understand people all at once,” she said, simply.  “I thought you were like other men—­I didn’t know till to-day how kind you could be.  Did you walk here?” she added, suddenly, with an effort to change the subject.  “Are you tired?  I have not been kindly received at this place—­but I’m sure I may offer you whatever the inn affords.”

It was impossible not to feel for her—­it was impossible not to be interested in her.  Arnold’s honest longing to help her expressed itself a little too openly when he spoke next.  “All I want, Miss Silvester, is to be of some service to you, if I can,” he said.  “Is there any thing I can do to make your position here more comfortable?  You will stay at this place, won’t you?  Geoffrey wishes it.”

She shuddered, and looked away.  “Yes! yes!” she answered, hurriedly.

“You will hear from Geoffrey,” Arnold went on, “to-morrow or next day.  I know he means to write.”