“I don't know why; I told you that. It's because I can't help it, I suppose. Or because, as I said, I know you better than any one else.” I sighed. “Nobody knows me here,” I said. “One knows you, Ros. I know you.” “You may think you do, but you don't. You can thank God for your ignorance.” “Maybe I ain't so ignorant.” I looked at him. He was looking me straight in the eye. “What do you know?” I asked, slowly. “I know, for one thing, that your name ain't Paine.” I could not answer. I am not certain whether I attempted to speak or move. I do remember that the pressure of his hand on my knee tightened. “It's all right, Ros,” he said, earnestly. “Nobody knows but me, and nobody ever shall know if I can help it.” “How--how much do you know?” I stammered. “Why, pretty much all, I guess. I've known ever since your mother was taken sick. Some things I read in the paper, and the pictures of--of your father, put me on, and afterwards I got more certain of it. But it's all right. Nobody but me knows or shall know.” I leaned my head on my hand. He patted my knee, gently. “Are--are you sure no one else knows?” I asked. “Certain sure. There was one time when it might have all come out. A reporter fellow from one of the Boston papers got on the track somehow and came down here to investigate. Luckily I was the first man he tackled, and I steered him away. I presume likely I lied some, but my conscience is easy so far as that goes.” “And you have told no one? Not even Nellie?” “No. I tell Nellie most things, but not all--not all.” I remembered afterwards that he sighed as he said this and took his hand from my knee; but then my agitation was too great to do more than casually notice it. I rose to my feet. “George! George!” I cried. “I--I can't say to you what I should like. But why--WHY did you shield me? And lie for me? Why did you do it? I was hardly more than a stranger.” He sighed. “Don't know,” he answered. “I never could quite see why a man's sins should be visited on the widows and fatherless. And, of course, I realized that you and your mother changed your name and came down here to get away from gossip and talk. But I guess the real reason was that I liked you, Ros. Love at first sight, same as we read about; hey?” He looked up and smiled. I seized his hand. “George,” I said, chokingly, “I did not believe I had a real friend in the world, except Mother and Dorinda and Lute, of course. I can't thank you enough for shielding us all these years; there's no use in my trying. But if ever I can do anything to help YOU--anything--I'll do it. I'll swear to that.” He shook my hand. “I know you will, Ros,” he said. “I told you I knew you.” “If ever I can do anything--” He interrupted me.