Then, in broken words, with long pauses between, he told her the story of his own and Lady Barbara’s home life, and of Dalton’s perfidy with all the horror that had followed, Kitty’s body bent forward, her ears drinking in every word, her plump, ruddy hands resting in her lap, her heart throbbing with sympathy for the man who sat there so calm and patient, stating his case without bitterness, his anger only rising when he recounted the incidents leading up to his wife’s estrangement and denounced the man who had planned her ruin.

Only when the tale was ended did she burst out:  “And I ain’t surprised yer heart’s broke!  Ye’ve had enough to kill ye.  The wonder to me is that ye’re walkin’ around with yer head up and your heart not soured.  I been thinkin’ and thinkin’ all these months, and John and I have talked it over many a night; but we never thought it was as bad as it is.  And now I’m goin’ to ask ye a question and ye must tell me the truth.  What are ye goin’ to do next?”

“See Father Cruse to-night and tell him what I have found out.  He must do the rest.  I have gone as far as I dared, and can go no further.  I must draw the line at crime.  In spite of it all, I would have gone down-stairs to see her, had she not been sent away, but I am glad now that I did not.  She comes of a proud race and that would have been the last thing she could have borne.  As it is, she thinks I am in Australia, and it’s better that she should.  She would have thought I had come to taunt her, and no one could have undeceived her.  I know her—­and her wilfulness.  Poor child!  She has always been her own worst enemy.  And so, just as soon as I learn what is to happen to her, I shall settle my account with the man who has caused her ruin, and return to England—­and I can go the easier, and pick up my old life again the better, if I can be assured that you will look after little Masie, and see that no harm comes to her.”

Kitty raised her hands from her lap and folded them across her bosom.  “Let me talk a little, will ye, Mr. O’Day?  Ye needn’t worry about Masie.  I’ll take care of her—­all that Kling will let me.  I knew her mother, who died when the child was born, and a fine woman she was—­ten times as good as Kling whom her father made her marry.  But there’s somebody else who needs me, and who needs ye more than Masie needs us, and that’s yer wife.  How do ye know her heart is not breakin’ for somebody to say a kind word to her?  Are ye goin’ home and leave her like this?  That’s not like ye, and I don’t want to hear ye say it.  Do you mean that if she is put away up the river, ye won’t stay here and—­”

“What for, to sit for five years waiting for her to come out?  And what then?  Have you ever seen one reform?”

“And if she gets off, and wanders around the streets?”

“Father Cruse must answer that question.”

“But ye came all these miles to New York to pull her out of the mess she had got into with that man who’s ruined yer home, and ye out in the cold without a cent—­and ye forgave her for that—­and now that she’s locked up with only herself to suffer, ye turn yer back on her and leave her to fight it out alone.”