He had seen many young girls, most of whom had shunned him on close acquaintance as one whose atmosphere was not wholesome. And he did not blame them. He knew himself perfectly, and knew what feelings were stirred in him at the sight of a pretty face. But he had spoken truly when he said he would as soon think of insulting his mother as breathing a poisonous breath upon Elithe. It was as if she were hedged about with an iron fence up to which he might come and look upon the aureole of purity and innocence and girlish beauty surrounding her, but beyond which he could not pass. He was steeped to the dregs in dissipation, but had sworn to reform, and had said so to Roger, who was reminded of the couplet, “The de’il when sick a saint would be, But when he was well, the de’il a saint was he.” Still, as a clergyman, it was his duty to encourage the least sign of reformation, and he spoke words of hope to the man who puzzled him greatly and to whom he brought Elithe to say good-bye. Taking her hand, Mr. Pennington said, “God bless you, Elithe, for all you have done for me.” Then, noticing the surprise in Mr. Hansford’s face at hearing her so familiarly addressed, he added: “I beg pardon for calling her Elithe. I must have done so ever since I knew her name,—the prettiest I ever heard. It does me good to say it.” Roger bowed stiffly and took his daughter away. Half an hour later Mr. Pennington, propped on pillows and looking through the window at the foot of his bed, saw Elithe with her father and Rob disappear in the gorge which led from the camp to Samona. CHAPTER IX. AT “THE SAMONA.”