“Why, my dear, if you knew a bit more of the world you’d know that it meant that he intends to pocket all the money himself.  And, what’s more, he’s got the best of the situation; for you left him of your own accord, my dear, and changed your name, and if you should surprise him now by putting in an appearance and saying you’re the lost young lady, what’s to hinder him saying you’re not you, and keeping the tin?  I don’t know who’s to swear to you, myself.  The men round Turrifs said you were growing so fast that between one time and another they wouldn’t know you.  Worst, that is, of living in out-of-the-way parts—­no one sees you often enough to know if you’re you or if you’re not you.”

“It is not true,” she cried.  He had at last brought the flash to her eyes.  She stood before him palpitating with passion.  “You are a liar!” she said, intensely.  “Mr. Bates is as honest as”—­words failed her—­“as—­as honest and as good as you don’t even know how to think of.”

He was like a necromancer who, although triumphant at having truly raised a spirit by his incantations, quails mystified before it.

“Oh well, since you feel so badly about it I’ll not say that you mayn’t outwit him if you put in your claim.  You needn’t give up all for lost if he does try to face it out.”

“Give up what for lost?  Do you think I care about this old mine so much?  I tell you, sooner than hear a tricky sharper like you say that Mr. Bates is as cunning as you are, I’d—­I’d—­” She did not say more, but she trembled with passion.  “Go!” she concluded.  “If you say I’m unfeeling, you say a thing I suppose is true enough; but you’ve said things to me this afternoon that are not true; and if there’s a good honest man in this world, it’s Mr. Bates.  Sooner than not believe that I’d—­sooner die.”

The tears had welled up and overflowed her eyes.  Her face was red and burning.

“Say, Eliza,” he said, gently enough.  He was more astonished than he could realise or express, but he was really troubled to see her cry.

“Oh, don’t ‘Eliza’ me!” she cried, angrily.  “You said you were going to go—­go—­go—­I tell you, go!  What business is it of yours, I’d like to know, to mention Mr. Bates to me?  You’ve no business with either him or me.”

“Upon my word!  I’ll take my gospel oath I’ve said no more than I do believe.”

“I dare say not.  You don’t know what an honest man is, so how could you believe in one?”

“I’ve a real soft heart; I hate to see you cry, Eliza.”

“Well, Mr. Bates hasn’t a soft heart at all; he’s as unkind as can be; but he’s as much above you, with all your softness, as light is above boot blacking.”

She was not good-looking in her tears.  She was not modest in her anger; all the crude rude elements of her nature broke forth.  She wrenched the door open although with obstinate strength he tried to keep it shut, desiring stupidly to comfort her.  She cast him aside as a rough man might push a boy.  When she was making her way upstairs he heard smothered sounds of grief and rage escaping from her.