Frances had come to regard her with a deep reverence. She understood now something of the nature of the bond that existed between mother and son. They were cast in the same mould. They faced life with the same determined fortitude. But whereas the one had definitely passed the age of rebellion and unrest, the other was still in the prime of life,—a gladiator to whom defeat was cruelly hard to bear. He might come to it in time, that stillness of resignation, but not till the fires of life had died down in his veins and there was nought of paramount importance left to live for. Then she could imagine such a state of mind supervening, but her whole soul revolted at the thought. And there were times when she was fiercely glad that he had not been able to hide his suffering from her. She saw but little of him during that time, but on the day of her talk with Maggie, she came upon him unexpectedly towards evening, leaning upon the garden-gate in the gloaming, his pipe in his mouth. He straightened himself to let her pass, and, the last glow of the sunset being upon him, she saw again that sleepless look in his eyes that had before so moved her. She paused with the half-formed intention of making some casual remark; but words that were wholly different from those she had intended to utter came to her lips instead. “How tired you are!” she said. She saw his mouth take the old cynical curve. “But still not down and out,” he said. She realized at once that the subject was unwelcome, but she did not turn from it. Some impulse moved her in the face of his distaste. “I am wondering,” she said, “if perhaps I could be of use—relieve you and your mother a little. I should be very proud if you would let me try.” He caught at the word as though it stung him. “Proud! Miss Thorold, your pride is easily satisfied!” She faced him steadily. “Mr. Dermot, I mean what I say—always. I owe you a debt. I should like to repay it. But if you refuse to accept payment, I will at least not add to it any further. If you will not allow me to be of use to you, I shall leave to-morrow.” His attitude altered on the instant, so suddenly that she was disconcerted. He leaned towards her with an odd gesture of surrender. “It is not a question of my allowing or disallowing,” he said. “You have me in the dust. Do whatever seems good to you—now and always. You come or go at Tetherstones exactly as you will.” His manner had a baffling quality, but she did not question the sincerity of his words; for she sensed a certain anxiety behind them that thrilled her strangely. “In that case,” she said, “will you let me stay—and help you?” He did not answer immediately, and in the brief silence she realized that he was putting strong restraint upon himself. Then: “You will stay,” he said, “if you will deign to do so. As to helping me—as to helping me—” he paused as if at a loss.