"My dear Frieda, you do me an injustice," he began, "although I know my actions do appear as you have just stated them. The truth is I found myself unable to go away at once from Kent House. I am not fond of London. I dreaded the loneliness there; also I longed for a sight of you to know for myself that you were well. So I wandered about through the grounds at some distance from the house and finally entered these woods. When you came into them alone and so unexpectedly, it seemed as if I must speak to you. I started toward you and you ran. I did not think my pursuit would alarm you. It was one of the many things, Frieda, I should have understood and did not." In spite of the fact that the fault of the present situation was undoubtedly Professor Russell's, there was an unconscious dignity and graciousness about him as he made his apology, which Frieda recognized was undoubtedly lacking both in her appearance and emotions. She felt extremely cross and her leg hurt. She could not go up to the house assisted by a husband whom she had just scornfully refused to see, and yet she did not believe she could walk alone. "Very well, Henry; now that you have accomplished your purpose, I hope you will be good enough to leave me," Frieda demanded, believing that she would rather suffer anything than a continuance of her present humiliation. But Professor Russell did not stir. "I prefer to see you safely through the woods. When we are nearer the house I may be able to find someone to take my place." Professor Russell then leaned over and lifted Frieda to her feet. As a result she found that her leg was not broken or sprained, but only bruised, and that walking was possible if she moved slowly. However, Frieda suffered considerable pain and she was not accustomed to bodily discomfort. At first she tried not to rest her weight upon the Professor's arm, for he had put his arm under hers and was attempting to support her almost entirely. But, by and by, as the pain grew worse, she found herself growing more dependent and, as a matter of fact, her dependence seemed perfectly natural. Once it occurred to her that, during her first acquaintance with Professor Russell, he had been hurt and in more ways than one had leaned upon her. No one ever had asked any kind of care from her before, and in those days she had at least thought that she had fallen in love with the Professor. At least she had insisted upon marrying him, when her entire family had opposed the union. There was no conversation between the husband and wife, except that several times Professor Russell, without waiting to be asked, stopped for Frieda to rest. Then, by and by, when they had reached the edge of the woods, he saw one of the men servants at a little distance off and signalled to him.