“I don’t know that you’ve justified it.  I don’t know what you’ve done.  No more does she, my dear.  And you didn’t think, did you, that Walter and I were going to give you up?”

“I’d have forgiven you if you had.”

“I couldn’t have forgiven myself, or Walter.”

“Oh, Walter—­if it hadn’t been for him I should have gone to pieces this time.  He’s pulled me out of the tightest place I ever was in.”

“I’m sure he was very glad to do it.”

“I wish to goodness I could do the same for him.”

“Why do you say that, Charlie?”

The prodigal became visibly embarrassed.  He seemed to be considering the propriety of a perfect frankness.

“I say, you don’t mind my asking, do you?  Has anything gone wrong with him and Mrs. Majendie?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, you see, I’ve got a sort of notion that she doesn’t understand him.  She’s never realised in the least the stuff he’s made of.  He’s the finest man I know on God’s earth, and somehow, it strikes me that she doesn’t see it.”

“Not always, I’m afraid.”

“Well—­see here—­you’ll tell her, won’t you, what he’s done for me?  That ought to open her eyes a bit.  You can give me away as much as ever you like, if you want to rub it in.  Only tell her that I’ve chucked it—­chucked it for good.  He’s made me loathe myself.  Tell her that I’m not as bad as she thinks me, but that I probably would be if it hadn’t been for him.  And you, Edie, only I’m going to leave you out of it.”

“You certainly may.”

“It’s because she knows all that already; and the point is to get her to appreciate him.”

Edith smiled.  “I see.  And I’m to make what I like of you, if I can only get her to appreciate him?”

“Yes.  Tell her that, as far as I’m concerned, I respect her attitude profoundly.”

“Very well.  I’ll tell her just what you’ve told me.”

She spoke of it the next day, when Anne came to read to her in the afternoon.  Anne was as punctual as ever in her devotion, but the passion of it had been transferred to Peggy.  The child was with them, playing feebly at her mother’s knee, and Anne’s mood was propitious.  She listened intently.  It was the first time that she had brought any sympathy into a discussion of the prodigal.

“Did he tell you,” said she, “what Walter did for him?”

“No.”

“Nor what had happened?”

“No.  I didn’t like to ask him.  Whatever it was, it has gone very deep with him.  Something has made a tremendous difference.”

“Has it made him change his ways?”

“I believe it has.  You see, Nancy, that’s what Walter was trying for.  He always had that sort of hold on him.  That was why he was so anxious not to have him turned away.”

Anne’s face was about to harden, when Peggy gave the sad little cry that brought her mother’s arms about her.  Peggy had been trying vainly to climb into Anne’s lap.  She was now lifted up and held there while her feet trampled the broad maternal knees, and her hands played with Anne’s face; stroking and caressing; smoothing her tragic brow to tenderness; tracing with soft, attentive fingers the line of her small, close mouth, until it smiled.