I was obliged to wait another moment before I could reply. I clutched the wheel tighter than ever. “The wonderful part of it all,” I said, earnestly, “is that you should even speak to me, after my treatment of you here, to-night. I was a brute. I ordered you about as if--” “Hush! Don't! please don't. Think of what I said to you! Will you forgive me? I have been so ungrateful. You saved my life over and over again and I--I--” “Stop! Don't do that! If you do I shall--Miss Colton, please--” She choked back the sob. “Tell me,” she said, a moment later, this time looking me directly in the face, “why did you sell my father that land?” It was my turn to avoid her look. I did not answer. “I know it was not because of the money--the price, I mean. Father told me that you refused the five thousand he offered and would accept only a part of it; thirty-five hundred, I think he said. I should have known that the price had nothing to do with it, even if he had not told me. But why did you sell it?” I would have given all I had, or ever expected to have, in this world, to tell her the truth. For the moment I almost hated George Taylor. “Oh, I thought I might as well, give in then as later,” I answered, with a shrug. “It was no use fighting the inevitable.” “That was not it. I know it was not. If it had been you would have taken the five thousand. And I know, too, that you meant what you said when you told me you never would sell. I have known it all the time. I know you were telling me the truth.” I was astonished. “You do?” I cried. “Why, you said--” “Don't! I know what I said, and I am so ashamed. I did not mean it, really. For a moment, there in the library, when Father first told me, I thought perhaps you--but I did not really think it. And when he told me the price, I KNEW. Won't you tell me why you sold?” “I can't. I wish I could.” “I believe I can guess.” I started. “You can GUESS?” I repeated. “Yes. I think you wanted the money for some purpose, some need which you had not foreseen. And I do not believe it was for yourself at all. I think it was for some one else. Wasn't that it?” I could not reply. I tried to, tried to utter a prompt denial, but the words would not come. Her “guess” was so close to the truth that I could only stammer and hesitate. “It was,” she said. “I thought so. For your mother, wasn't it?” “No, no. Miss Colton, you are wrong. I--” “I am not wrong. Never mind. I suppose it is a secret. Perhaps I shall find out some day. But will you forgive me for being so hateful? Can you? What is the matter?” “Nothing--nothing. I--you are too good to me, that is all. I don't deserve it.” “Hush! And we will be friends again?” “Yes. . . . . Oh, no! no! I must not think of it. It is impossible.” “Must not think of it? When I ask you to? Can't you forgive me, after all?” “There was nothing to forgive.”