The man winced, and it was fortunate that they had now left the light behind and his mother could not see his face. "I could have stayed and died with him," he broke out with unaffected bitterness. "There were times at the beginning when I was sorry I let him send me away." Mrs. Gladwyne shook her head reproachfully. She was gracious and quietly dignified and refined in thought, but for all that she was not one to appreciate such a sacrifice as he had indicated. "I'm afraid that was an undue exaggeration of a natural feeling," she remonstrated. "How could your staying have helped him, when by going in search of help you increased his only chance of safety? I have always been glad you were clear-headed enough to realize it, instead of yielding to mistaken emotional inclinations." Gladwyne felt hot with shame. His mother had an unshaken confidence in his honor, which was the less surprising because her perceptions had never been very keen and she had always shrunk from the contemplation of unpleasant things. It was an amiable weakness of hers to idealize those she loved, and by resolutely shutting her eyes on occasions she succeeded in accomplishing it more or less successfully. Clarence was, of course, aware of this, and it hurt to remember that in deserting his cousin he had been prompted chiefly by craven fear. His mother, however, quite unconscious of what she was doing, further humiliated him. "Of course," she continued, "if you had found the cache of provisions, it would have been your duty to return to George at any hazard, and I have no doubt whatever that you would have gone." The damp stood beaded on the man's forehead. He realized that even his lenient and indulgent mother would shrink from him if she knew that he had abandoned his dying benefactor like a treacherous coward. He said nothing and they had strolled to the end of the terrace before she spoke again. "I think it would be better to go back to the others and drive away these morbid ideas," she advised. "It's a duty to look at the brightest side of everything." He made no answer, but he strove with some degree of success to recover his usual tranquillity as they turned toward the entrance of the hall. In the meanwhile, Lisle had been talking to Millicent. She had already made a marked impression on him, for in the wilds the man had acquired a swift and true insight into character. One has time to think in the lonely places where, since life itself often depends upon their accuracy, a man's perceptions grow keen, and though some of the minor complexities and subtleties of modern civilization might have puzzled him he was seldom mistaken in essentials.