Again he felt her trembling. Again the path was rough, and having an impulse of sympathy, he put his arm about her. In the world of leisure, one might indulge in such considerateness, and he assumed it would not be different with a miner’s daughter. But then, when she was close to him, he felt, rather than heard, a sob. “Mary!” he whispered; and they stopped. Almost without realising it, he put his other arm about her, and in a moment more he felt her warm breath on his cheek, and she was trembling and shaking in his embrace. “Joe! Joe!” she whispered. “_You_ take me away!” She was a rose in a mining-camp, and Hal was deeply moved. The primrose path of dalliance stretched fair before him, here in the soft summer night, with a moon overhead which bore the same message as it bore in the Italian gardens of the leisure-class. But not many minutes passed before a cold fear began to steal over Hal. There was a girl at home, waiting for him; and also there was the resolve which had been growing in him since his coming to this place--a resolve to find some way of compensation to the poor, to repay them for the freedom and culture he had taken; not to prey upon them, upon any individual among them. There were the Jeff Cottons for that! “Mary,” he pleaded, “we mustn’t do this.” “Why not?” “Because--I’m not free. There is some one else.” He felt her start, but she did not draw away. “Where?” she asked, in a low voice. “At home, waiting for me.” “And why didn’t ye tell me?” “I don’t know.” Hal realised in a moment that the girl had ground of complaint against him. According to the simple code of her world, he had gone some distance with her; he had been seen to walk out with her, he had been accounted her “fellow.” He had led her to talk to him of herself--he had insisted upon having her confidences. And these people who were poor did not have subtleties, there was no room in their lives for intellectual curiosities, for Platonic friendships or philanderings. “Forgive me, Mary!” he said. She made no answer; but a sob escaped her, and she drew back from his arms--slowly. He struggled with an impulse to clasp her again. She was beautiful, warm with life--and so much in need of happiness! But he held himself in check, and for a minute or two they stood apart. Then he asked, humbly, “We can still be friends, Mary, can’t we? You must know--I’m so _sorry_!” But she could not endure being pitied. “’Tis nothin’,” she said. “Only I thought I was going to get away! That’s what ye mean to me.” SECTION 25. Hal had promised Alec Stone to keep a look-out for trouble-makers; and one evening the boss stopped him on the street, and asked him if he had anything to report. Hal took the occasion to indulge his sense of humour. “There’s no harm in Mike Sikoria,” said he. “He likes to shoot off his head, but if he’s got somebody to listen, that’s all he wants. He’s just old and grouchy. But there’s another fellow that I think would bear watching.”