With David's mother the occupation of trying to help David made living desirable. It also made her a little more remote from other people's interests. Poor Robert Ferguson discovered this to his cost: it had occurred to him that now, when they were all so miserable, she might perhaps "be willing." But she was not. When, a day or two after he had gone to see Elizabeth, he went to Philadelphia, Mrs. Richie was tremulously glad to see him, so that she might pour out her fears about David and ask advice on this point and that. "Being a man, you understand better than I do," she acknowledged meekly; then broke down and cried for her boy's pain. And when the kind, barking old friend, himself blinking behind misty spectacles, said, "Oh, now, my dear, don't cry," she was so comforted that she cried some more, and for a single minute found her head most unexpectedly on his shoulder. But all the same, she was not "willing." "Don't ask me, dear Mr. Ferguson," she said, wiping her eyes. "We are such good friends, and I'm so fond of you, don't let's spoil it all." "I believe you are fond of me," he said, "and that is why it's so unreasonable in you not to marry me. I don't ask--impossibilities. But you do like me; and I love you, you dear, good, foolish woman;--so good that you couldn't see badness when it lived next door to you!" "Don't be so hard on people who do wrong," she pleaded; "you make me afraid of you when you are so hard." "I'm not hard; Elizabeth is her mother's daughter; that's all." "Oh!" she cried, with sudden passion, "that poor mother! Can't you forgive her?" "No," he said; "I can't." "You ought to forgive Elizabeth, at any rate," she insisted, faintly; "and you ought to go and see her." "Have you forgiven her?" he parried. She hesitated. "I think I have. I've tried to; but I don't understand her. I can understand doing something--wicked, for love; but not for hate." He gave his meager laugh. "If forgiveness was a question of understanding, I'm afraid you'd be as hard on her mother as I am." "On the contrary," she said, vehemently, "if I forgive Elizabeth, it is for her mother's sake." Then she broke out, almost with tears: "Oh, how can you be so unkind as not to go and see the child? The time we need our friends most is when we have done wrong!" He was silent. "Sometimes," she said, "sometimes I wish you would do something wrong yourself, just to learn to be pitiful!" "You wish I would do wrong? I'm _always_ doing wrong! I did wrong when I growled so. But--" he paused; "I believe I _have_ seen Elizabeth," he said sheepishly; "I believe we kissed and made up." At which even poor, sad Helena laughed.