"What can have put such a notion into your head? Good heavens!" he repeated, dazed and scandalised. "You knew me so little!" He seemed more grieved than angry. "I didn't—oh! I didn't really," she sobbed. "It was only what you had said yourself. I never could have dreamt such a thing, but for that—never! But I couldn't forget—'couldn't' understand." "What did I say?" He spoke gravely, even with sternness. She faltered some of the utterances which had so weighed upon her mind. "I ought to have known better. I ought to have been sure of you," she said sorrowfully. "Then—this was why—!" he murmured. "Yes," she whispered. "Will you forgive me—for ever thinking it 'could' be?" The response she expected did not come. No touch of his hand, no renewal of his offer. He said dejectedly— "There is no question of forgiveness. I laid myself open to misconstruction." After a moment's hesitation, he gave the clue which Phyllys had lacked. "What I meant was that Colin's ill-health lay at my door. That it was my doing. That I could never, through life, repay him for all he has lost through me." "But—how?" Giles alluded to the tale she had earlier heard of the cliff accident, in which Elsye Wallace was killed; and he seemed relieved not to have to relate the whole. "It was my doing. I was mad with temper and jealousy, thinking she cared more for him than for me. Some jest of his finished me off—not Colin's fault! I did not see how close they were to the edge, on slippery grass—and one push did it. I flung off as I gave the push, and there was a cry, and when I turned back they were gone—both! Never quite clear whether he overbalanced, and she went too, trying to save him; or whether she started back, and he went, trying to save her. But it was my doing. I killed 'her'—and ruined his health for life." Phyllys' eyes were full again. "How dreadful!" she murmured. "How awful! It was enough to kill you too. Yet you never meant—" "What of that? I 'did' it! And not a word of reproach from him. Only one wish—that nobody should be told." "Was—nobody?" "Her father, of course. He was—good!" with difficulty. Giles looked in wonder on Phyllys' little hand laid on his knee. He had not expected to see it there. "You are sorry for me? But—" he could not refrain from laying his hand on hers, and the touch of those soft fingers thrilled him. "Phyllys, I have no home now to offer. I am a penniless man. Even if you could accept me, you would have to wait years!" "And if I don't mind waiting?"—with her sweetest smile. "I should be wrong to let you. It is all too indefinite. I am leaving Castle Hill. He has endured too much through my mother. It must end." "I beg your pardon," a voice said, and Colin came from the inner room. "Sorry to interrupt you, but I found myself hearing something not meant for me."