Mary shrugged her shoulders. “If you did, I dare say a bevy of society women would tender you a banquet when you were released from jail.” He bit his lip and stared at her. “You are taking this seriously with a vengeance!” “I must.” He crossed the room and, bending beside her, sought to take her hand. “Do you mean that but for this--? Mary, are you going to let a little thing like this separate us?” He had captured her fingers, but they lay limp and unresponsive in his. “It is not a little thing; from my standpoint it is everything.” “But you will give me another chance?” “You have had your chance. That was it. I was trying to find out whether I loved you, and now I know that I do not. I could never marry a man I could not--er--trust.” “Trust? I swear to you that I am worthy of trust.” She smiled sadly and drew away her hand. “Maybe. But I shall never know, you see, because I do not love you.” Her feminine inversion of logic increased his dismay. “I shall never give up,” he exclaimed, rising and buttoning his coat. “When you think this over you will realize that you have exaggerated what I did.” She shook her head. His obduracy made no impression on her, for she was free from doubts. “We will be friends, if you like; but we can never be anything closer.” An inspiration seized him. “What would the girl whom Jim Daly loves, if there is one, say? She has never given him up, I wager.” Mary blushed at his unconscious divination. “I do not know,” she said. “But you are one person, Jim Daly is another. You have had every advantage; he is a--er--blatherskite. Yet you condescend to put yourself on a par with him, and condone the offence on the ground that your little world winks at it. Remember “‘Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues.’ How shall society progress, unless my sex insists on at least that patent of nobility in the men who woo us? I am reading you a lecture, but you insisted on it.” George stood for a moment silent. “You are right, I suppose.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he turned and left the room. As he passed out, Mary heard the voices of the orphans, Joe and Frank, in the entry. The former in greeting her held out a letter which had just been delivered by the postman. “You’ve come back, Miss Wellington,” cried the little boy rapturously. “Yes, Joe dear.” Mechanically she opened the envelope. As she read the contents she smiled faintly and nodded her head as much as to say that the news was not unexpected. “But _noblesse oblige_,” she murmured to herself proudly, not realizing that she had spoken aloud. “What did you say, Miss Wellington?” Mary recalled her musing wits. “I’ve something interesting to tell you, boys. Miss Burke is going to be married to Jim Daly. That is bad for you, dears, but partly to make up for it, I wish to let you know that there is no danger of my leaving you any more.” AGAINST HIS JUDGMENT