She looked up as he spoke, and saw shining deep in his eyes the spirit that had taught him to read so well the impulse of another lover, and, seeing it, she dropped her eyes quickly in order not to see what was there. With him it had been only an instant’s uncontrollable surge of ecstasy. He meant to wait. Every instinct of the decent thing told him not to take advantage of her weakness, her need of love to rest upon in her trouble, her transparent care for him and confidence in him so childlike in its entirety. For convention he did not care a turn of his hand, but he would do nothing that might shock her self-respect when she came to think of it later. Sternly he brought himself back to realities. “Shall I see Mr. Mott for you and send him here? It would be better that he should make the arrangements than I.” “If you please. I shall not see you again before I go, then?” Her lips trembled as she asked the question. “I shall come down to the hotel again and see you before you go. And now good-by. Be brave, and don’t reproach yourself. Remember that he would not wish it.” The door opened, and Virginia came in, flushed with rapid walking. She had heard the news on the street and had hurried back to the hotel. Her eyes asked of Ridgway: “Does she know?” and he answered in the affirmative. Straight to Aline she went and wrapped her in her arms, the latent mothering instinct that is in every woman aroused and dormant. “Oh, my dear, my dear,” she cried softly. Ridgway slipped quietly from the room and left them together. CHAPTER XXIV. A GOOD SAMARITAN Yesler, still moving slowly with a walking stick by reason of his green wound, left the street-car and made his way up Forest Road to the house which bore the number 792. In the remote past there had been some spasmodic attempt to cultivate grass and raise some shade-trees along the sidewalks, but this had long since been given up as abortive. An air of decay hung over the street, the unmistakable suggestion of better days. This was writ large over the house in front of which Yesler stopped. The gate hung on one hinge, boards were missing from the walk, and a dilapidated shutter, which had once been green, swayed in the breeze. A woman of about thirty, dark and pretty but poorly dressed, came to the door in answer to his ring. Two little children, a boy and a girl, with their mother’s shy long-lashed Southern eyes of brown, clung to her skirts and gazed at the stranger. “This is where Mr. Pelton lives, is it not?” he asked. “Yes, sir.” “Is he at home?” “Yes, sir.” “May I see him?” “He’s sick.” “I’m sorry to hear it. Too sick to be seen? If not, I should like very much to see him. I have business with him.” The young woman looked at him a little defiantly and a little suspiciously. “Are you a reporter?” Sam smiled. “No, ma’am.”