“You should have thought of that before you made Lizzie a mother,” said Muriel sternly. “And now you will leave her alone to starve,” she added with quiet scorn, “after having taken away her only chance of earning her living, and—and having done the very worst you could.” The man said nothing; his face was heavy with inarticulate rage; she felt that he wanted intensely to knock her down. One of his mates remarked to a group of men that “’Obbs looked horful hugly.” It did not occur to him though to walk away. Suddenly her voice softened. “Dick,” she said, “you’re not that sort of man at all—you know you are not. You hadn’t thought of it before—that was all, wasn’t it? You didn’t mean to harm poor Lizzie so. And she loves you, Dick—she wasn’t a bit angry with you—she doesn’t blame you at all.” (It had not exactly occurred to the man that she did. It was a new idea to him that she had a right to.) “And—and so I can tell her that you _want_ to marry her—will marry her at once, Dick, won’t you, before—before it’s too late? You will let me tell her that, won’t you?” Still no answer. “I trust you,” she said softly; “I feel so sure that you have the makings of a good man.” His eyes were glued on the floor. He felt more bewildered than angry, and still obstinately clung to silence, which could not, as he phrased it, “let him in for anything.” Muriel took a rose she was wearing. With a sudden impulse she held it out to him. “I gave Lizzie one,” she said gently, “one like this. Would you like to wear it?” It seemed easier to take it than to speak, but somehow he was impelled to look at her. Her eyes were fastened on him with a look he never forgot—grave, earnest, truthful—as if she had weighed his soul and was simply waiting for the proof of her judgment. A voice he scarcely recognized for his own growled, “Well, then, what if I does?” “Thank God!” she murmured softly. “Thank God!” He waited for his answer. She smiled at him so wonderfully that he felt the tears rise to his eyes. Her own eyes swam in them. “I will help you all I can,” she said. “Now come with me to Lizzie.” He followed unwillingly. The men by the door shouted something after him as he passed. He did not hear. He followed her clumsily with creaking boots into a room that resembled nothing he had ever seen before, though it was simply furnished; and sitting in a large chair by the fire was Lizzie. Her eyes were fastened on the door with a dumb, questioning look. She moved her lips as if they were dry. Then she saw him. “Oh, my man! my man!” she cried. Muriel shut the door quietly, and left them alone together. She felt suddenly as if she could never feel hopeless again. CHAPTER VI “The tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.”