He read no more. Now, for the first time, he seemed to set these women, who had been with him as it were through all his life, side by side; to see the one, so strong, so fine, and so patient; the other--the gay butterfly that had been good to look at. He had thought that Alice had helped him; now, through his shamed memory, came the remembrance of the monosyllables--the light laughter--the ready acquiescence in all he had said or suggested. And set against that the woman who had come to him in his rooms, and had not been ashamed to speak of the child and of her love for it--to speak of the little hands that held her own and wound themselves about her heart. He thought savagely of all he had lost; triumphantly of all he would regain. But he was a little late. Mr. Anthony Ditchburn--that poor, wavering, drifting wreck of humanity--had got the start of him; and Anthony Ditchburn wanted money and craved shelter. He had gone down to that quiet country place where Moira lived with Patience and the child; and there had blurted out the truth. He had been quite proud, in a sense, of what he had done; he seemed to see a grateful Moira, blessing him for having brought those hidden letters to the notice of her obdurate husband. Ashamed and afraid to send the letters herself, she yet would welcome this messenger; would understand the motive in the mind of the man who had done so daring a thing. Therefore when, in due course, Anthony Ditchburn presented himself again at the cottage, and presently (the better to establish a temporary residence there) blurted out what he had done, he was a little astonished at the result. She stood for a moment as if stunned; opened her lips to speak once or twice, but could get out no words. Then she sprang for the door, and he and the wondering Patience heard her flying up the stairs; then the sound of swift feet overhead. A few moments later she was down again; and there was a look in her eyes before which Anthony Ditchburn trembled. "Why did you do it?" she demanded. "Is nothing sacred to you; am I to be shamed and degraded by such a creature as you? You have sheltered here--you have eaten our bread, and slept secure under our roof; yet you rob me of what was mine--steal the very soul of me!" "But you addressed them to him," pleaded Ditchburn. "Yes--for my own comfort--to cheat myself," she cried passionately. "And now--now he has read them"--she beat her hands together, and suddenly and surprisingly burst into tears. "I cannot see him again--cannot meet him; and I that hoped some day to climb as high as his heart!" Anthony Ditchburn had begun again a halting explanation; but she checked him fiercely. She flung open the door, and pointed outside imperiously. "Go!" she cried, "for I am in that mood when I might do you harm. Go--and never let me see you again!" "I'm a poor old man--and it's raining," he whimpered; but she thrust him out of the house and shut the door upon him.