“Perhaps not, Mary. But when a man knows he’s never paid for any of the things he’s enjoyed all his life, surely the least he can do is to be ashamed. I hope you’ll try not to hate me as you do the others.” “I never hated ye, Joe! Not for one moment! I tell ye fair and true, I love ye as much as ever. I can say it, because I’d not have ye now; I’ve seen the other girl, and I know ye’d never be satisfied with me. I don’t know if I ought to say it, but I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not be altogether satisfied with her, either. Ye’ll be unhappy either way--God help ye!” The girl had read deeply into his soul in this last speech; so deeply that Hal could not trust himself to answer. They were passing a street-lamp, and she looked at him, for the first time since they had started on their walk, and saw harassment in his face. A sudden tenderness came into her voice. “Joe,” she said; “ye’re lookin’ bad. ’Tis good ye’re goin’ away from this place!” He tried to smile, but the effort was feeble. “Joe,” she went on, “ye asked me to be your friend. Well, I’ll be that!” And she held out the big, rough hand. He took it. “We’ll not forget each other, Mary,” he said. There was a catch in his voice. “Sure, lad!” she exclaimed. “We’ll make another strike some day, just like we did at North Valley!” Hal pressed the big hand; but then suddenly, remembering his brother stalking solemnly in the rear, he relinquished the clasp, and failed to say all the fine things he had in his mind. He called himself a rebel, but not enough to be sentimental before Edward! SECTION 30. They came to the house where John Edstrom was staying. The labouring man’s wife opened the door. In answer to Hal’s question, she said, “The old gentleman’s pretty bad.” “What’s the matter with him?” “Didn’t you know he was hurt?” “No. How?” “They beat him up, sir. Broke his arm, and nearly broke his head.” Hal and Mary exclaimed in chorus, “Who did it? When?” “We don’t know who did it. It was four nights ago.” Hal realised it must have happened while he was escaping from MacKellar’s. “Have you had a doctor for him?” “Yes, sir; but we can’t do much, because my man is out of work, and I have the children and the boarders to look after.” Hal and Mary ran upstairs. Their old friend lay in darkness, but he recognised their voices and greeted them with a feeble cry. The woman brought a lamp, and they saw him lying on his back, his head done up in bandages, and one arm bound in splints. He looked really desperately bad, his kindly old eyes deep-sunken and haggard, and his face--Hal remembered what Jeff Cotton had called him, “that dough-faced old preacher!”