‘Certain sure—­heard her tell mum.’

Mrs. Haddon was standing at the door when they reached the house, and Harry followed her into the kitchen.

‘Give it to me, Alice,’ he said.  ‘Quick!  Can’t you see I’m half mad?’

Mrs. Haddon handed him the letter, and he tore the envelope with awkward impatient fingers.  The note was brief: 

’Dear Harry,—­I write this to bid you good-bye again, and thank you again for all your kindness and goodness.  I am going away because I can no longer bear to live amongst people who know me as the daughter of one who was a thief and almost a murderer.  Don’t think bitterly of me.  All that I have done I did for the best, according to my poor light.  We may never meet again, but it would make me happier some day to know that you had forgiven me, and that you remembered me without anger in your own happiness.

—­Your very true friend,

‘Christina Shine.’

Harry sank into a chair and sat for a minute staring blankly at the letter, and Mrs. Haddon stood by his side staring curiously at him.  Suddenly she slapped firmly on the table with her plump hand and asked sharply: 

‘Well, Harry, well?’

He turned his blank eyes upon her.

‘Do you care a button for that girl?’

‘Care?’ he said.  ‘I care my whole life an’ soul for her!’

‘Well, then, what’re you goin’ to do? ‘’Re you goin’ to lose her?’

‘In the name o’ God, Alice, what can I do?  She doesn’t want me; she is going away to be rid of me.’

‘Not want you?  You great, blind, blunderin’ man you; she loves you well enough to break her heart for you.  Can’t you see why she’s going away?  Of course you can’t.  She’s goin’ because she thinks she’s an object of shame an’ disgrace; because she feels on her own dear head an’ weighin’ on her own great, soft, simple heart all the weight of the shame that belonged to that bad devil of a father of hers; because all that the papers, an’ the lawyers, an’ the judge said about the sins o’ Ephraim Shine she feels burnin’ in red letters on her own sweet face.  That’s why she’s goin’; an’ if she is leavin’ you it’s because she feels this whole villainous business makes her unfit to be your wife.  Now what’re you goin’ to do, Harry Hardy?’

Harry had risen to his feet; his face was flushed, he trembled in every limb.

‘Do?’ he gasped.  ‘Do?’

‘Do!’ Repeated the widow in a voice that had grown almost shrill.  ‘There’s a horse an’ saddle an’ bridle in McMahon’s stable.’

Harry turned and ran from the house; and the little widow, standing at the door flushed and tearful, looking after him, murmured to herself: 

‘An’ if you lose her, Harry Hardy, you’re not the man I took you for, an’ I’ll never forgive you—­never.’

She looked down and encountered Dick’s eyes—­seeming very much larger and graver than usual—­regarding her with solemn admiration.  The boy had conceived a new respect for his mother within the last two minutes, and had discovered in her a kindred spirit hitherto unsuspected.