"Jem, I don't understand. Why have you followed me if you weren't sent to bring me back?" "I came to tell you that as far as I can see there ain't no call for you to go back at all if you've not a mind to. They can't complain or compel you." "Not father or mother?" exclaimed the girl. "No. They ain't got no right to; they haven't had a right all this time to keep you. You can leave 'em straight away if you've a mind to." "But," persisted the girl, "there's mother." "No there ain't. She's no mother of yours. She's my aunt, worse luck, but she ain't your mother, and uncle ain't your father. You don't belong to 'em by right and no one could compel you to go to 'em. They know that right enough." The girl looked dazed. "She ain't my mother?" she said, "nor that man my father? But then who am I? Where is my mother?" "That I can't tell you. You're a child of a friend of Aunt's, but I don't know who. She didn't want you, so let Aunt have you. That's all I know." The girl leant forward eagerly, looking up into her companion's face. "Look at me, Jem. Look at me and say that you ain't tellin' me a lie." The man turned and looked at her. His eyes blazed as only blue eyes can. "Have I ever told you a lie?" he asked, "and do you think I'd be likely to tell you this one?" "How long have you known this?" asked Meg, breathing quickly. "For a year come this October." The girl sprang up clenching her hands. "You knew it and yet never told me?" she cried. "Then you've acted a lie for nearly a year and you've never given a hand to set me free, though you have known how I have longed for it. You call yourself my friend, and yet you've let me live the life of a dog all these years. I call it—" But while Meg was searching the depths of her brain for a suitable word—a word in which to express all the scorn that she felt for her companion, he had risen, and now stood towering above her and looking down upon her with a dangerous expression in his eyes. "You don't know what you're saying," he said sternly. "You don't know what it means to me to tell you even now. It's just the killin' of me. But you don't know and don't care. Do you think it means nothin' to me to help to set you free? When I can't come along of you to see you're safe and happy. You'll have no one to look after you and the world's a wicked place." The look of indignation on the girl's face was giving way to one of tender surprise. "I didn't know you liked me so well," she said, "or that you'd mind me goin' so much." He rammed his hands deep; into his pockets and stood looking at her with the reflection of the sunset full on his face. He looked ruddy and strong and good. "If it wasn't for Steve we'd go away together," he said gravely, "and we'd be married in the first church we came across, and then you'd always have someone to look after you. But I can't leave Steve."