"That's the strange part, and you won't understand it until you see her. She came because she had just heard--some one had told her--about Fletcher's old rascality." "You don't say so!" exclaimed Tucker beneath his breath. He gave a long whistle and sat smiling at the little red anthill. "And did she actually proffer an apology?" he inquired. "An amendment, rather. The Hall will come to her at Fletcher's death, and she walked over to say quite coolly that she wanted to give it back to us. Think of that! To part with such a home for the sake of mere right and justice." "It is something to think about," assented Tucker, "and to think hard about, too--and yet I cut my teeth on the theory that women have no sense of honour. Now, that is pure, foolish, strait-laced honour, and nothing else." "Nothing else," repeated Christopher softly; "and if you'll believe it, she cried--she really cried when I told her I couldn't take it. Oh, she's wonderful!" he burst out suddenly, all his awkward reserve dropping from him. "You can't be with her ten minutes without feeling how good she is--good all through, with a big goodness that isn't in the least like the little prudishness of other women--" He checked himself hastily, but not before Tucker had glanced up with his pleasant smile. "Well, my boy, I don't misunderstand you. I never knew a man yet to begin a love affair with a panegyric on virtue. She's an estimable woman, I dare say, and I presume she's plain." "Plain!" gasped Christopher. "Why, she's beautiful--at least, you think so when you see her smile." "So she smiled through her tears, eh?" Christopher started angrily. "Can you sit there on that log and laugh at such a thing?" he demanded. "Come, come," protested Tucker, "an honest laugh never turned a sweet deed sour since the world began--and that was more than sweet; it was fine. I'd like to know that woman, Christopher." "You could never know her--no man could. She's all clear and bright on the surface, but all mystery beneath." "Ah, that's it; you see, there was never a fascinating woman yet who was easy to understand. Wasn't it that shrewd old gallant, Bolivar Blake, who said that in love an ounce of mystery was worth a pound of morality?" "It's like him: he said a lot of nonsense," commented Christopher. "But to think," he added after a moment, "that she should be Bill Fletcher's granddaughter!" "Well, I knew her mother," returned Tucker, "and she was as honest, God-fearing a body as ever trod this earth. She stood out against Fletcher to the last, you know, and worked hard for her living while that scamp, her husband, drank them both to death. There are some people who are born with a downright genius for honesty, and this girl may be one of them."