But the bat had not finished banging his head against the wall. “Then I did do some good by going?” he asked earnestly. “Oh, indeed you did.” If he did not care whether she had been hurt or not, even in his delirium, she was not going to betray herself. “It was the first time anybody had seen Uncle Peter smile; he was wretched all day. He loves you very dearly, Mr. Breen.” Jack's hand dropped so suddenly to his side that the pain made him tighten his lips. For a moment he did not answer. “Then it was only Uncle Peter who was anxious, was it? I am glad he loves me. I love him, too,” he said at last in a perfunctory tone--“he's been everything to me.” “And you have been everything to him.” She determined to change the subject now. “He told me only--well,--two days ago--that you had made him ten years younger.” “Me?--Miss Ruth!” Still the same monotonous cadence. “Yes.” “How?” “Well,--maybe because he is old and you are young.” As she spoke her eyes measured the width of his shoulders and his broad chest--she saw now to what her father owed his life--“and another thing; he said that he would always thank you for getting out alive. And I owe you a debt of gratitude, too, Mr. Breen;--you gave me back my dear daddy,” she added in a more assured tone. Here at last was something she could talk unreservedly about. Something that she had wanted to say ever since he came. Jack straightened and threw back his shoulders: that word again! Was that all that Ruth had to say? “No, Miss Ruth, you don't.” There was a slight ring of defiance now. “You do not owe me anything, and please don't think so, and please--please--do not say so!” “I don't owe you anything! Not for saving my father's life?” This came with genuine surprise. “No! What would you have thought of me, what would I have thought of myself had I left him to suffocate when I could just as well have brought him out? Do you think I could ever have looked you in the face again? You might not have ever known I could have saved him--but I should have hated myself every hour of my life. Men are not to be thanked for these things; they are to be despised if they don't do them. Can't you see the difference?” “But you might have been killed, too!” she exclaimed. Her own voice was rising, irritation and disappointment swaying it. “Everybody says it was a miracle you were not.” “Not a miracle at all. All I was afraid of was stumbling over something in the dark--and it was nearly dark--only a few of the rock lights burning--and not be able to get on my feet again. But don't let us talk about it any more.”