Norman Sinclair was deeply moved. The tears were in his own eyes as he waited in silence, without venturing to touch, or speak to her, lest any move on his part should check her confidence. Presently she continued, "You must know I was just becoming engaged to Bernard Cameron when all these things happened----" "Engaged?" interrupted the other, in dismay. "Yes. Bernard and I had loved each other long. But she--his mother, you know--made me vow that I would not marry him--to bring disgrace upon him." "Disgrace?" "Yes," Doris said. "The only thing my father had left him, Mrs. Cameron told me, was his honourable name, which would be sullied if I married him, and also, she said, the only hope for his being able to retrieve his position was for him to marry some one who had money. I therefore declared that I would never, never marry him, and I ran away at once that I might not see him again." "Ran away? Alone?" "Yes," and then Doris told about her travelling to London and upon arriving at Earl’s Court Square in the night finding her friend Miss Earnshaw dead, so that there was another person in possession of the house, who was unkind and inhospitable. "My child, what did you do?" The words escaped involuntarily from Norman’s lips. Doris told him of the compassionate cabman, who most fortunately being a good and honest man, took her to his mother, who proved to be a good Samaritan to her in her poverty and need. Then she spoke rather shyly of her abortive attempts to paint pictures which would sell, and the work she found at last of lamp-shade making, which supported her for a time, until, upon its failing her, she joined Alice Sinclair’s more remunerative business. "You spoilt our partnership," she said in conclusion, "but I am getting on all right now, and have saved nearly one hundred pounds for Bernard. In time I hope to let him have much more." "You consider yourself so greatly in his debt?" queried the artist, in amazement. "Certainly. My father robbed him of much money. I must try to pay some back." "But the man cannot legally claim a farthing from you. A girl--under age, too--cannot be made to pay a debt." "You don’t understand. It is a debt of honour. Ah!" she smiled sadly, "you thought I acted dishonourably about the pictures, so you cannot understand my being honourable about anything else." "You could not be dishonourable," exclaimed Norman, quite hotly, "or anything else except most honourable. About the pictures you hold a mistaken view, that is all. For the rest, your taking upon yourself this debt is _noble_. I only know one other girl who would have attempted it." He smiled grimly. "Alice?" "Yes." "Ah, she would have done it. How I wish you would let her come to me! I have not many friends," Doris’s lips trembled. There were times when she yearned for Alice’s bright young face and loving words.