"Yes, Jane Hemingway’s daughter. You hate her, I know, with the unreasonable hatred that comes from despising her mother, but you’ve got to help me, Aunt Ann. You put me where I am, in education and standing, and you must not see me pulled down." "How could I help you, even—even—oh, you don’t know, you don’t know that at this very minute—" "Oh yes, he may be with her right now, for all I know," King broke in, passionately. "He may be pouring his lies into her confiding ear at this very minute, as you say, but Fate would not be cruel enough to let them harm her. You must see her, Aunt Ann. For my sake, you must see her. You will know what to say. One word from you would open her eyes, when from me it would be an offence. She would know that you knew; it would shock her to her very soul, but it would—if she’s actually in danger—save her; I know her well enough for that; it would save her." "You are asking too much of me, Luke," Ann groaned, almost in piteous appeal. "I can’t do it—I just _can’t_!" "Yes, you will," King said. "You have got a grand soul asleep under that crust of sordid hatred and enmity, and it will awake, now that I have laid bare my heart. You, knowing the grim penalty of a false step in a woman’s life, will not sit idle and see one of the gentlest of your kind blindly take it. You can’t, and you won’t. You’ll save her for me. You’ll save me, too—save me from the fate of a murderer." He stood up. "I’m going now," he finished. "I must hurry on home. I won’t have time to see you in the morning before I leave, but you now know what I am living for. I am living only for Virginia Hemingway. Men and women are made for each other, we were made for each other. She may fancy she cares for that man, but she doesn’t, Aunt Ann, any more than you now care for—but I won’t say it. Good-bye. You are angry now, but you will get over it, and—and, you will stand by me, and by her." XXI