‘Turn a thought down to me’--the words were sufficiently pathetic from the young man who had been proud and upright all his life--the hard life that might have been easily excused if it had fallen from neglect and ill-treatment into evil. And not less pathetic was the unwonted stir of passion that would not allow him to sit down, but forced him to pace about the room. Alice remained seated on the hearth, with her knitting on her lap; but, as he moved about the room, she followed him with her eyes. A woman is never so little inclined to reticence as when a man confides to her friendship his trouble and his love--the sense of security from misconstruction brings with it a feeling of freedom that is almost dangerous. Alice remained silent--it was her nature to be quiet--but the desire to comfort was rising in her heart. So when Tim, tired of pacing, came to the hearth again, and sat down by her side, she put out her hand, and, without looking at him, laid it on his arm. It was but the softest movement, lightest touch, but the slightest touch is electric when it conveys sympathy. For one moment she waited, with her hand still on his arm; and then, without removing it, she spoke. ‘Ye must go to her, Tim,’ said Alice, very gently, and yet with decision in her gentleness; ‘ye must tell her as ye come to her as a friend .... that ye will help her if ye can .... It may be as she’ll confide in thee, she have known thee long. Wait only a bit while till her fever is better, and then go to her, an’ speak.’ With another quiet movement she removed her hand; and, taking up her strip of red knitting, began to work again. ‘Ye’re a good girl, Alice,’ cried Tim, in gratitude--a gratitude all the more intense because it had something in it of surprise--‘I never imagined, it wasn’t in my thoughts, as ye’d be so kind to me .... and to her. I see as ye love her, I didn’t know that before, I’d have spoken to ye of her before now, if I had. An’ she’s worthy of love, whate’er they say on her; we’ll not be the friends not to stand by her now.’ ‘Oh, but it’s not on Annie I’m thinking,’ cried Alice, suddenly; ‘ye mustn’t think better on me nor I deserve .... I am sorry for her .... indeed, indeed I am .... but she’s not been my friend, and I can’t think most on her. It’s Nat .... he feels it so .... it’s so bad for him ....’ and her eyes filled with tears. Tim sat still, and looked at her with a sudden, great surprise--the discovery of an interest of which he had not been aware before; for, indeed, it is even possible that he may, unconsciously, have been led to the idea of another preference. The farmer’s wife had taken so much interest in him--he could not but be aware of the fact, although he had never asked himself to what cause that interest was due.