"He's a long way off from that," said she. "There's different sorts of badness, Kitty. A man may be resolute set on evil, or he may drift into evil just from not caring. I don't know as it makes much odds how he comes there—only I'd have more hopes of the resolute man of the two. For if he came out of evil, he'd do it with a will, and stay out; but if Mr. Russell's pulled out, he's as like as not to drift in again." And wasn't it true? "Only you wouldn't say there was no hope for a weak man, mother?" "No," she answered. "There's hope always for every man. God's grace can keep firm the very weakest. All the same," says she, "I'd sooner have to do with a man that's staunch by nature, than with a poor limp thing that's bent by every puff of wind. There's a deal more to be made of the one than the other," says she. "Rupert wasn't limp," I said; and it was strange I should have spoken of him just then. I don't know why I did, except that he'd been a deal in my thoughts for a great while past. I often wished I could just tell him I was sorry for all the hard words I'd said. "Rupert? No," says mother. "Rupert was another guess sort of a man. Stuff enough there, Kittenkins. And you might have had him," says she, with a queer look at me; "only you thought you'd sooner have a limp thing for a husband." "O mother, it's no good to talk of that now," I said. "Rupert's married long ago, I don't doubt." "I do," says mother, very low. "And if Mr. Russell wasn't Mary's brother, I'd never give a thought to him again," I said. "No, and we won't," says mother, and she patted my hand that lay on her arm. She had grown so endearing in her ways, much more than she was used to be before our troubles. Well, we got home, and mother went upstairs. Mary was in, and I told her all about what had happened. Mary said, "Ah! I wanted to spare your mother seeing him!" But I don't think she was sorry it had happened. She put down her work and went after mother. So I was left alone; and I pulled off my hat and sat down to the sewing-machine. I hadn't been working it for five minutes, when there was a heavy step in the passage—the front door having been left open— and then a tap at the dining-room door. "Come in," I said. But there was only a second tap. "Come in," I said again; and as nobody came in, I got up and opened. "Does Mrs. Phrynne live here?" says a voice which I seemed to know, yet I didn't directly think whose it was. A man was standing there, in a big rough greatcoat; not very tall, but broad and strong. Our passage was always so dark, I only had a glimpse of a rugged plain sort of face. "Yes," I said; "this is Mrs. Phrynne's room." "May I come in?" says he. "Yes. She is upstairs; but I'll call her," I said. "No, don't," says he. And he walked in and shut the door. For one second I was frightened; then— "Kitty!" says he, "don't you know who I am?" "Rupert!" I cried out. "O Rupert, I'm so glad!"