“Now,” she said, imploringly—­“now do!”

Collin was getting every moment stiffer and redder.  He felt like an intruder, and, despite these softening influences, made up his mind not to say a word.  It was nobody’s business but his.  It was his own miserable affair.  He neither asked help nor wanted it.

How, then, did the story get itself told?  Collin supposed that Trudy must have started it, for he did not.

He sat bewildered by all this strange and unwelcome situation, while slowly, drawn out by questions and gentle comments, his trouble was told.

His first weak mistake, the disaster at Buxton, Trudy’s attempt at righting matters and her failure, and all the dreary facts of the present condition of things.  By degrees, the lady who sat with thoughtfully-lowered eyes and knit brows heard it all.

“Don’t think it was my idea to tell you, ma’am,” Collin ended, the blood mounting in his sturdy face.

“Doesn’t mamma know that?” Rosalie cried, impatiently.

She had got her way, and she was highly satisfied.

“And don’t think I’m asking you to do anything for me,” Collin proudly persisted.  “I don’t know what you could do; I don’t expect anything—­I didn’t want to come in.”

“And she knows all that, too,” said Rosalie, knocking down his protests like tenpins.

Her mother sat thinking.

“I wish I knew what to say,” she said, sincerely, “or what to do.  I should be glad to do something, believe me.  I am deeply sorry for you, my boy.  It seems to me that your case is a peculiarly hard one.  I am glad I have heard your story, for I can give you my sympathy, if nothing more.  You made a mistake; you were thoughtless and weak; yes, you did wrong.  But—­I can’t help saying it—­it seems to me that your punishment is too great.  You have escaped nothing; the worst has come.  The worst fault was not yours, and yet you are suffering most.  At least, don’t be ashamed of having told me,” said Mrs. Scott, that ready sympathy of which her face spoke strongly roused.

“I wish I could help you,” she declared.  “Not only does your case deserve it, but Trudy Carr here”—­she smiled brightly.  “I feel as though I knew Trudy Carr.  I have heard nothing but items concerning her since Rosalie first saw her.  And that little adventure on the bay is not to be forgotten.  Yes, I would help you gladly.”

“There’s only one way for me,” said Collin.  “If I could go back there to work, and show Mr. Conover what I can be and do, there’d be some chance for me; I could ‘live it down.’  But that’s gone up.”

“That is the only way, or the best by far,” was Mrs. Scott’s quiet agreement.  “I wish it might be.  I had an idea about it—­I wonder—­I want to do what I can.  I might send a note to Mr. Conover.”  And then she added, with an impulsiveness much like Rosalie’s own, “I will go myself.  We’ll go together.  I have an idea, as I said.  Come, it will do no harm to try.”