‘Oh, I know,’ interrupted Rosalie. ‘I know it too well. Do not throw it in my face now!’ ‘Throw it in your face, Mrs. F.! Who’s a-throwing o’ what in your face? All I do say is I did al’ays do my best for ’ee—don’t you go for to blame me, for blame I do not deserve.’ Both raised their heads and looked at him, astonished at the change of tone, for now the old man seemed to speak more in sorrow than in anger. ‘I did al’ays do my best for ’ee. I did al’ays think and act as kind as I could, and you did never once think of I. ’Ees, I did never interfere,’ he went on, more emphatically; ‘I left ye both to yourselves—did n’t I? I never comed in your way. But ye mid ha’ given me a thought.’ The penitent heads drooped again. What need had they to be reminded how guileless he had been, how unsuspicious, how chivalrous in thought and deed! ‘’Ees,’ went on Isaac, ‘I did leave ye to yourselves—I did ax ye to make friends. Do you mind how often I axed ye to be friends?’ True indeed; only too true! They had taken a base advantage of his confidence; they had profited of the opportunities he had given them only to be more and more unfaithful to him in their hearts. ‘I thought you ’d be different to what you do be,’ he continued, with increasing severity. ‘When Sam’el Cross did tell I as you ’d snap up Mrs. F., Richard, what did I say? Says I, “My nevvy bain’t a snapper!” D’ ye mind? I said the same thing to you. Well, I thought maybe you ’d say summat then—but not a word!’ ‘Uncle, I—it is n’t fair to reproach me like this. I kept away from Littlecomb as long as I could; you know that.’ ‘’Ees, I do know it, Richard—I know it very well; you would n’t come with me when I did ax ’ee that Sunday. You would n’t come along o’ me to Littlecomb; nay, but you went out by yourself that night, and when you comed back ye would n’t so much as sit down and smoke a pipe like an honest Christian; and next day you must get up and go off wi’ yourself before ’t were light. And what did I do then—what did I do, Richard, though you ’d gone off and left me wi’out so much as a line? I did n’t give up hopes of ’ee yet. I went and wrote ’ee a letter and told ’ee to come back, and all ’ud be forgive and forgot. There now, and what do ’ee say to that?’ His face was working with emotion, his voice tremulous for all its strength. Never in his life, probably, had Isaac Sharpe put so many words together, and every one of them came from his heart. To the young people it seemed as though all their struggles had been futile, their good desires vain, their great sacrifice useless: for all their days they would be branded with infamy. They had, indeed, stopped short of the breach of faith to which both had been so strongly tempted, but they had nevertheless violated trust. ‘And even now,’ said Isaac—‘even at the very last, when you were for cuttin’ off wi’out no explanation, I did give ’ee one more chance—and you would n’t take it.’