The door opened before a rough hand, and O’Neil strode into the room, huge, shaggy in his coonskin coat.  They rose, startled, but he came to them swiftly, a look of mingled shame and gladness in his face.

“I’ve come back to apologize,” he cried.  “I couldn’t wait.  I’ve learned what you children did while I was gone, and I’ve come to beg forgiveness.  It’s all right—­it’s all right.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dan gasped.

“Doc told me how you paid those men.  That was real friendship; it was splendid.  It touched me, and I—­I want to apologize.  You see, I hurried right back.”

They saw that his eyes were moist, and at the sight Eliza gave a quivering cry, then turned swiftly to hide her face.  She felt O’Neil’s fur-clad arm about her shoulder; his hand was patting her, and he was saying gently:  “You are a dear child.  It was tremendously good of you both, and I—­ought to be shot for acting as I did.  I wonder if you can accept a wretched apology as bravely as you accepted a wrong accusation.”

“It wasn’t wrong; it was right,” she sobbed.  “Dan told her, and she told Gordon.”

“There, there!  I was to blame, after all, for letting any one know, and if Dan made a mistake he has more than offset it by his unselfishness—­his sacrifices.  It seems I forgot how much I really owe him.”

“That affair with the shift bosses wasn’t anything,” said Dan, hastily, “and it was all Eliza’s idea.  I refused at first, but when she started to pay them herself I weakened.”  He stuttered awkwardly, for his sister was motioning him desperately to be silent; but he ran on:  “Oh, he ought to know the whole truth and how rotten I acted, Sis.  I deserve to be discharged.”

“Please don’t make this any harder for me than it is,” Murray smiled.  “I’m terribly embarrassed, for I’m not used to apologies.  I can’t afford to be unjust; I—­have so few friends that I want to cherish them.  I’m sorry you saw me in such a temper.  Anger is a treacherous thing, and it always betrays me.  Let’s forget that I was here before and pretend that I just came to thank you for what you did.”  He drew Dan into the shelter of his other arm and pressed the two young people to him.  “I didn’t realize how deeply you kids care for each other and for me.”

“Then I’m not fired?” Dan queried, doubtfully.

“Of course not.  When I take time to think about discharging a man I invariably end by raising his salary.”

“Dan isn’t worth half what you’re paying him,” came Eliza’s muffled voice.  She freed herself from Murray’s embrace and rearranged her hair with tremulous fingers.  Surreptitiously she wiped her eyes.  “You gave us an awful fright; it’s terrible to be evicted in winter-time.”  She tried to laugh, but the attempt failed miserably.

“Just the same, when a man contemplates marriage he must have money.”

“I don’t want your blamed money,” Dan blurted, “and it doesn’t cost anything to contemplate marriage.  That’s all I’m doing—­just looking at it from a distance.”