“Because,” he answered, “it is well that I should do penance where I sinned, Miss Bonamy,” he continued impetuously, yet in a low voice, and with his eyes on the ground. “I owe you a deep apology for my rude thanklessness when I met you here last. You were right and I was wrong; but if it had been the other way, still I ought not to have behaved to you as I did. I thought—that is—I——” He faltered and stopped. He meant that he had thought that she was playing into her father’s hands, but he could hardly tell her that. She understood, however, or guessed, and for the first time she blushed. “Pray, do not say any more about it,” she said hurriedly. “I did send you a message,” he answered. “Oh, yes, yes,” she replied, anxious only to put an end to his apologies. “Well,” he rejoined with a smile which did not completely veil his earnestness, “I do find it a little more pleasant to look farther back to our Oxford visit. But you are going this way. May I turn with you?” “I am only going home,” Kate answered coldly. He had been humble enough to her. He had said and looked all she had expected. But he was not at all the crushed, beaten man whom she had looked to meet. He was, outwardly at least, the same man who had once sought her society for a few weeks and had then slighted her and shunned her to consort with the Homfreys and their class. He had not said he was sorry for _that_. He read her tone aright, and he colored furiously, growing in a second a thousand times more confused than before. It was on the cards that he would accept the rebuff, and leave her in resentment. Indeed, that was his first impulse. But the consciousness, which the next moment filled his mind, that he had deserved this, and perhaps the charm of her gray eyes and proud downturned face, overcame him. “I will come a little way with you, if you will let me,” he said, turning and walking by her side. Kate’s heart gave a great leap. She understood both the first thought and the second, the weaker impulse and the stronger one which mastered it, and she would not have been a woman had she not felt her triumph. She hastened to find something to say, and could think only of the bazaar. She asked him if it had been a success. “The bazaar?” he said. “To tell you the truth, I am afraid I hardly know. I should say so, now you ask me, but I have not given much thought to it since. I have been too fully occupied with other things,” he added, a note of bitterness in his voice. “Ah! Miss Bonamy,” with a fresh change of tone, “what a good fellow your cousin is!” “Yes, he is indeed!” she answered heartily. “I cannot tell you,” he continued, “what generous help and support he has given me during the last few days. He has been the greatest possible comfort to me.” She looked up at him impulsively. “He is Daintry’s hero,” she said.