He faced her proudly, with the big, honest, clumsy dignity of a rugged man--and there was a loving quiet in his tones that touched her ineffably. "Poor Bernal had told me his--his _contretemps_. The rest is simple. He is my brother. The last I remember of our mother is her straining me to her poor breast and saying, 'Oh, take care of little Bernal!'" Tears were glistening in his eyes. "From the very freedom of the poor boy's talk about religious matters, it is the more urgent that his conduct be irreproachable. I could not bear that even you should think a shameful thing of him." She looked at him with swimming eyes, yet held her tears in check through the very excitement of this splendid new admiration for him. "But that was foolish--quixotic--" "You will never know, little woman, what a brother's love is. Don't you remember years ago I told you that I would stand by Bernal, come what might. Did you think that was idle boasting?" "But you were willing to have me suspect _that_ of you!" He spoke with a sad, sweet gentleness now, as one might speak who had long suffered hurts in secret. "Dearest--dear little woman--I already knew that I had been unable to retain your love--God knows I tried--but in some way I had proved unworthy of it. I had come to believe--painful and humiliating though that belief was--that you could not think less of me--your words to-night proved that I was right--you would have gone away, even without this. But at least my poor brother might still seem good to you." "Oh, you poor, foolish, foolish, man--And yet, Allan, nothing less than this would have shown you truly to me. I can speak plainly now--indeed I must, for once. Allan, you have ways--mannerisms--that are unfortunate. They raised in me a conviction that you were not genuine--that you were somehow false. Don't let it hurt now, dear, for see--this one little unstudied, impetuous act of devotion, simple and instinctive with your generous heart, has revealed your true self to me as nothing else could have done. Oh, don't you see how you have given me at last what I had to have, if we were to live on together--something in you to _hold_ to--a foundation to rest upon--something I can know in my heart of hearts is stable--despite any outward, traitorous _seeming_! Now forever I can be loving, and loyal, in spite of all those signs which I see at last are misleading." Again and again she sought to envelope him with acceptable praises, while he gazed fondly at her from that justified pride in his own stanchness--murmuring, "Nance, you please me--you _please_ me!" "Don't you see, dear? I couldn't reach you before. You gave me nothing to believe in--not even God. That seeming lack of genuineness in you stifled my soul. I could no longer even want to be good--and all that for the lack of this dear foolish bit of realness in you." "No one can know better than I that my nature is a faulty one, Nance--"