“The first thing I remember, Master Dandy, was having you pointed out to me, on your pony, as the young Squire; I used to go out of my way, to watch you cantering along the roads. Then, afterwards, when you took notice of me, and wouldn’t have any one else near you, and made me your servant, I was prouder than I can ever express. God forgive me—(but there’s no blasphemy in it, Master Dandy)—you were my God to me—my everything! I think I would have been glad to let you thrash me, as you did your dogs, if I could have thought it would please you.” Philip Chater found his voice at last—although it was rather an unsteady one. “Well,” he said, with what brusqueness he could muster—“what has all this to do with the matter?” “Master Dandy,” went on the appealing voice—“I’m not a great gentleman, like you—and I can’t put my poor thoughts into the right words. But—Master Dandy—won’t you—won’t you try to run straight with me—won’t you let me help you? Master Dandy”—he came a step nearer, in his eagerness—“I’d give—I’d give my life for you!” “Yes—and yet you’ll insult me, because I happen to look at some girl in whom you take an interest,” said Philip, slowly. The lad’s figure stiffened, and the appeal died out of his eyes. “Because I love her, Master Dandy,” he said. “Because I’ve got the feelings of a man, and I know that a gentleman like yourself doesn’t pay court to a tavern-keeper’s daughter, with any good intent.” “Why—what the devil do you mean?” cried Philip, startled for the moment into answering out of his own honest heart. “Master Dandy—I’ve stuck up for you through thick and thin—and I’d kill the man who dared to say a word against you. But you know what has been said, about these parts—God forgive me, I’m speaking as man to man, and not as servant to master—and you know that decent mothers warn their girls about you. Master Dandy—I suppose these are gentlemen’s ways—at least, I’ve heard so; and I’d have held my tongue, and done my duty, if so be you had not touched what belonged to me. But she’s mine, Master Dandy—and she’s a child—and innocent. God in Heaven, man!”—all social distinctions seemed to be swept away, for the moment, in the passion which overwhelmed him—“was not one forlorn woman’s life enough for you?” Staggered by the words, and even more by the tone in which they were uttered, Philip Chater turned upon him swiftly, and caught his arm. “What do you mean? ‘One forlorn woman’s life!’ What are you talking about?” All the passion had faded from the face of the other man; but the eyes which looked into those of Philip Chater had a horrible deadly fear growing in them.