But the storm was still brewing in his breast. "A couple more days of this and I'll go clean off my head!" he said savagely. "How about me?" said Pen. "You don't have to squat under the bushes all day." "I have other troubles." "I have things to bear that you don't know anything about. I have never spoken of it." Instantly Pen, who had been feeling so pleasantly sure of herself, turned hot with jealousy. There was some other woman out in the world. Of course there would be! He was tormented because he couldn't communicate with her. Because he couldn't assure her of his innocence. How could she find out about her for sure? "If you'd tell me what it is," she said, schooling her voice, "perhaps I could help." "Not in this matter," he said with a bitter little laugh. Then she was miserably sure. Nevertheless she persisted, as the nightingale is supposed to press her breast against a thorn. "I've often wondered why you don't allow me to write to some of your best friends. Those you can trust I mean. The letters could be worded in such a way that they'd mean nothing if they fell into the wrong hands." "I've no one to write to," he said. Pen thought: "Of course he wouldn't trust another woman to write to her," and was exquisitely unhappy. "Any news?" Don asked gloomily. "No," said Pen. She had previously determined not to raise his hopes by telling him about Blanche Paglar until something had come of it. There was a long silence between them, and Pen became wretcheder and wretcheder. When she could stand it no longer she put the bag down beside the fence and said in an offhand tone: "Well ... I must be getting back ... I'll come again to-morrow night." She started to walk away with her sedate air, but a little quicker perhaps than would suggest perfect calmness. Before she had taken three steps he came after her. Pen broke into a run. He overtook her. Ah! if he had only taken her in his arms! But he only circled about her, spreading out his arms to bar her way. "Pen, _Pen_, don't leave me!" he said imploringly. "That would be the last straw! ... Don't leave me to brood over my own hatefulness." The pain in his voice arrested her. She forgot her own pain. As in a flash she had a clairvoyant glimpse of what he must be going through day after day, the resolute young man compelled to skulk in the woods, while his name was bandied about with the stigma of murder upon it. "I'm a fool!" she said with a shaky little laugh. "To get sore ... I won't go." "Oh, Pen, you're so good to me!" he groaned. "I'm a stubborn brute, Pen, I can't thank you properly. But Pen, I feel as if you were heaping a load on me that I'd never be able to struggle from under! But I ought not to feel that way, Pen." Ever since he had got hold of that little name he could scarcely address five words to her without using it, and every time he spoke it he caressed it. Pen was reassured.