The door was pushed open. "Why, Rosalie," said the newcomer, "your father and Uncle Angus are here. I thought you were to meet them at the boat?" "I didn't, mamma," Rosalie answered. "This is Trudy Carr again, and--" "Collin Spencer," added Trudy. And Rosalie's mother, who had a face of sweet refinement, with clear gray eyes, and wore a handsome dark gown with billowy-lace falling from neck and sleeves, and had a pleasant voice and smile--Rosalie's mother shook hands with Trudy Carr and Collin Spencer, and sat down near them. And Rosalie brought a stool and perched herself between them. "Now," she said, imploringly--"now _do!_" Collin was getting every moment stiffer and redder. He felt like an intruder, and, despite these softening influences, made up his mind not to say a word. It was nobody's business but his. It was his own miserable affair. He neither asked help nor wanted it. How, then, did the story get itself told? Collin supposed that Trudy must have started it, for he did not. He sat bewildered by all this strange and unwelcome situation, while slowly, drawn out by questions and gentle comments, his trouble was told. His first weak mistake, the disaster at Buxton, Trudy's attempt at righting matters and her failure, and all the dreary facts of the present condition of things. By degrees, the lady who sat with thoughtfully-lowered eyes and knit brows heard it all. "Don't think it was _my_ idea to tell you, ma'am," Collin ended, the blood mounting in his sturdy face. "Doesn't mamma know that?" Rosalie cried, impatiently. She had got her way, and she was highly satisfied. "And don't think I'm asking you to do anything for me," Collin proudly persisted. "I don't know what you _could_ do; I don't expect anything--I didn't want to come in." "And she knows all that, too," said Rosalie, knocking down his protests like tenpins. Her mother sat thinking. "I wish I knew what to say," she said, sincerely, "or what to do. I should be glad to do something, believe me. I am deeply sorry for you, my boy. It seems to me that your case is a peculiarly hard one. I am glad I have heard your story, for I can give you my sympathy, if nothing more. You made a mistake; you were thoughtless and weak; yes, you did wrong. But--I can't help saying it--it seems to me that your punishment is too great. You have escaped nothing; the worst has come. The worst fault was not yours, and yet you are suffering most. At least, don't be ashamed of having told me," said Mrs. Scott, that ready sympathy of which her face spoke strongly roused. "I wish I could help you," she declared. "Not only does your case deserve it, but Trudy Carr here"--she smiled brightly. "I feel as though I knew Trudy Carr. I have heard nothing but items concerning her since Rosalie first saw her. And that little adventure on the bay is not to be forgotten. Yes, I would help you gladly."