"Have you been to see Mary?" says mother, fixing her eyes on him, and I saw him shrink under them. "Yes," says he sheepishly; "just to say goodbye." I couldn't go on, for mother had hold of my arm, as she always liked to do, and I didn't like to leave her, she looking so white. Mother seemed to forget about me, and Walter and I didn't so much as give a glance one at another. "Ah!—to say good-bye!" says mother. "I didn't think it right to go without," mutters he. "Maybe not," says she; "if it wasn't a solid good-bye in the shape of gold and silver you came to her for, Mr. Russell," says she; and he got as red as fire again. "Ah, I thought so," says she, as quiet as possible. "Mary is a good unselfish creature; but she's got herself to provide for, and there's limits even to what a sister can bear. If I was you, I'd be ashamed to come down on her for help. She, a delicate woman, and you a strong man, with hands of your own, and a head too." Walter mumbled something about "last time he should be compelled—" "Well, I hope it is," says she. "There's no sort of being compelled, though, without it is by your own nature. Being compelled to evil means giving in to evil, neither more nor less. And I can tell you, Mr. Russell, I'll do my best to protect Mary and her earnings from you. I say it, and I mean it," says she. "Much obliged, I'm sure," says he, so I suppose he was angered. "I've got to be off to my train," he says. "There's no reason why I should keep you," says mother. "I'm glad to have seen you this once, and I'm glad to shake hands with you—once —because you have wronged me and mine in the past, and I have much to forgive," says she. Walter just let her take his hand, and then rushed off as hard as ever he could go. And that was the last I saw of him for many and many a long year—till I was a middle-aged woman, and he was a middle-aged man. He'd lived through a peck of troubles of his own making by then, and he was old before his time, and a poor weak fellow still; but I won't say we hadn't hopes of him. Maybe he'd got some wisdom out of his troubles at last. Well, to go back to the time I'm telling about. "Mother, why did you stop him?" I asked. "I don't know, Kittenkins," says she. "I had a sort of feeling that I must." "To think that I ever cared for him!" I said. "I doubt you didn't," says she. "Oh, but I did, mother." "You cared a deal for the fuss he made with you," says she. "That's at the bottom of half the silly marriages that's made; and that's a wonderful different thing from caring for himself." And then she says, "He's a bad man." "He isn't a good man, I'm afraid," said I.