She wrenched away from him, laughing and crying together. “’Tis him,” she repeated; “I know him by this!” and she suddenly snatched at the plain signet ring that he wore on his left hand. Trench drew his hand away in anger, his patience exhausted. “Jean,” he said harshly, “you’re mad.” “No!” she shook her head, still pointing at him, “no--it is you!” She was pointing, her wild young face rigid, as a carriage came toward them. Trench looked up and met the calm gaze of Colonel Royall and Diana, who occupied the back seat. In front, beside the negro coachman, Jacob Eaton leaned forward and stared rudely at the group in the dust. “What is the matter, Jacob?” the old man asked, as the carriage passed. The young one laughed. “The old story, I reckon, Colonel,” he said affably, “begging Diana’s pardon.” “You needn’t beg my pardon. It was Jean Bartlett, pa,” she added, blushing suddenly. “Poor girl!” The colonel touched his lips thoughtfully. “By gad, I wish I knew who was the father of her child--I’d make him keep her from starving.” “You do that, pa,” said Diana quietly. “I reckon the father’s there now,” said Jacob Eaton, with a slight sneer. Diana flashed a look at the back of his head which ought to have scorched it. “It is only the shopkeeper at Eshcol,” she said haughtily. “Are shopkeepers immune, Diana?” asked Jacob Eaton, chuckling. “I am immune from such conversations,” replied Diana superbly. Jacob apologized. Meanwhile, the group by the wayside had drawn nearer together. “I will take your child home, for you are tired,” said Trench sternly, “but I tell you that I do not know your story and you don’t know me. If you accuse me of being that child’s father, you are telling a falsehood. Do you understand what a falsehood is, Jean?” His face was so stern that the girl cowered. “No,” she whimpered, “I--I won’t tell, I swore it, I won’t tell his name.” “Neither will you take mine in vain,” said Caleb Trench, and he lifted the sobbing Sammy.