“Betty,” he said gently, “have you no mother?” She smiled with a little falling sadness. “Oh, your honour, she died before I can remember.” “Or father?” Betty looked sheepish. “Father was shot by the Preventive in ’91,” she murmured. “H’m! and he there--has he brought you up and cared for you?” “Ever since? Yes.” “And he’s good to you?” Her rosy face took an expression of surprise. “Grandfather? Oh, yes! We are the only two left. I shall be--I shall be quite alone when he is gone.” Could this--the desire to secure protection for his own, on whatever condition, be the explanation of the old man’s attitude? A wryed morality, if it were; but at least forethoughtful and unselfish. But no. The suggestion had been an evil and self-interested one. “Do you serve the tap all day, Betty?” said he. “Mostly, your honour. But Jim will take a turn when we go a-jaunting.” “Who is Jim?” “He’s the stable-boy.” “Well, what have you got for me there?” She groped in her basket. “Here’s turnips and little carrots, and a right early stick of celery.” “I’ll pay you double for each, and throw a kiss in for interest, Betty.” She backed a step or two. “Will you please not to talk like that?” “I will please; I will please. Deeds are better than words.” She made as if to run from him; but pulled herself up and stood still with eyes full of trouble. His blood raced in his veins. She looked a very Andromeda--warm and winning and pathetic. He went a hurried pace, slid his arm about her, and kissed her lips softly. The moment he had done it, he was sorry. She never moved, panting where she stood. “I hope you will be ashamed,” she said, with a little breaking sob. He answered humbly: “I am, Betty--there, I am;” and gave her a glance of remorse. Then he added: “Go to your grandfather, my dear. Maybe, after all, the old scamp is safer than the young.” “Yes,” she said, striving to steady her voice. “I mustn’t come hither again.” She turned and moved away a step or two, her pretty head hanging. Suddenly she faced about, and came at our gentleman with a little spit of passion. “I trusted you, and it was unfair. And I came to give your honour warning, and now I won’t!” The words were hardly out of her lips when her eyes were drowned in tears. “Yes, yes--I will, I will!” she cried, and buried her face in her hands. Tuke smiled and put his arm again about the girl. She showed no sign of resentment--even allowed herself to be pulled a trifle closer to him. “Betty, my little wench--what is it all? What is the to-do?” “Oh!” she looked up at him through blinking lashes--“there are evil men about.” “Why, so I know, my dear. And what then?” She clasped her fingers convulsively over the basket-handle. “I fear for your honour. There is something dark afoot; and you live lone and the times is troublous.” “But all this is for any understanding. Have you nothing more?”