“Oh, do not speak of that! My poor Harry--my darling brother! to lose his home and his inheritance, and to be banished away from all he loved; and then just when life was beginning to smile a little, to die! I cannot speak of that!” Mr. Rowland walked about the room more quickly than ever. She had covered her face with her hands, and the hot heavy tears were falling upon her dress like rain. After many hesitations he came up to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. “Is that so bad,” he said, “if we really believe that the other life is the better life? We say so, don’t we? and no doubt he’s got something better to do there than railroads, and likes it better, now he’s there.” She looked up at him startled, though the sentiment was common enough. It is a fine thing to be matter of fact on such a subject, and gives faith a solid reality which is denied to a more poetical view. “I’m not sorry for him,” said Rowland. “I’ll hope to know him some day. I’ve always heard he was a fine fellow, incapable of anything that was--shoddy.” Our engineer used very good English often, but now and then he knew nothing so forcible as the jargon which has got so much into all talk now-a-days, and is a pitfall for a partially educated man. “But,” he said, pressing his hand upon her shoulder, in a way which perhaps a finer gentleman would not have used to call her attention, “There is this to be said, my dear lady. You’ve had a great deal of trouble, but if I live you shall have no more. No more if I can help it! As long as James Rowland is to the fore nothing shall get at you, my dear, but over his body.” He said it with fervour and with a momentary gleam as of moisture in his eyes; and she, looking up to him with a certain surprise in hers in which the tears were not dry, held out her hand. And thus their bargain was made: with as true emotion, perhaps, as if they had been lovers of twenty rushing into each other’s arms. No trouble to get at her but over his body! it was a curious touch of romance and hyperbole in the midst of the matter of fact. And how true it turned out! and how untrue!--as if any one living creature could ever come between another and that fate to which we are born as the sparks fly upwards. But the idea of being thus taken care of, and of some one interposing his body between her and every assailant, was so new to Evelyn that she could not but smile. She was the one that had taken care of everybody and interposed her delicate body between them and fate. “And now,” said he, “it’s my turn. I was ready when you began. I’ve more to say, and less; for nobody has ever done me wrong. I am a widower to start with. I don’t know if you had heard that----” “Yes--I heard it--” “That’s all right then; you did not get to know me under false pretences. But you must know that I wasn’t always what I am now. I am not very much to brag of, you will say now--but I’m a gentleman to what I was,” he said, with a little harsh emotional laugh.