“Pity she didn’t find it out before she left him!” exclaimed Sanford. “Pity he didn’t do something to show his appreciation of her, you mean!” she interrupted, with a quick toss of her head. “You are all wrong, Kate. Caleb is the gentlest and kindest of men. You don’t know that old diver, or you wouldn’t judge him harshly.” “Oh, he didn’t beat her, I suppose. He only left her to get along by herself. I wish such men would take it out in beating. Some women could stand that better. It’s the cold indifference that kills.” She had risen from her seat, and was pacing the floor of the veranda. “Well, that was not his fault, Kate. While the working season lasts he must be on the Ledge. He couldn’t come in every night.” “That’s what they all say! If it’s not one excuse, it’s another. I’m tired to death of hearing about men who would rather make money than make homes. Now that he has driven her out of her wits by his brutality, he closes his door against her, even when she crawls back on her knees. But don’t _you_ despise her.” She stood before him, looking down into his face for a moment. “Be just as sweet and gentle to her as you can. If she ever goes wrong again, it will be the world’s fault or her husband’s,—not her own. Tell her from me that I trust her and believe in her, and that I send her my love.” Sanford listened to her with ill-concealed admiration. It was when she was defending or helping some one that she appealed to him most. At those times he recognized that her own wrongs had not imbittered her, but had only made her the more considerate. “There’s never a day you don’t teach me something,” he answered quietly, his eyes fixed on her moving figure. “Perhaps I have been a little hard on Betty, but it’s because I’ve seen how Caleb suffers.” She stopped again in her walk and leaned over the rail of the veranda, her chin on her hand. Sanford watched her, following the bend of her exquisite head and the marvelous slope of her shoulders. He saw that something unusual had stirred her, but he could not decide whether it was caused by the thought of Betty’s misery or by some fresh sorrow of her own. He threw away his cigar, rose from his chair, and joined her at the railing. He could be unhappy himself and stand up under it, but he could not bear to see a shade cross Kate’s face. “You are not happy to-night,” he said. She did not answer. Sanford waited, looking down over the garden. He could see the shadowy outlines of the narrow walks and the white faces of the roses drooping over the gravel. When he spoke again there were hesitating, halting tones in his voice, as if he were half afraid to follow the course he had dared to venture on. “Is Morgan coming home, Kate?” “I don’t know,” she replied dreamily, after a pause. “Didn’t he say in his last letter?” “Oh yes; answered as he always does,—when he gets through.” “Where is he now?” “Paris, I believe.” She had not moved nor lifted her chin from her hand.