The young man was silenced; anger and shame surged together within him. The most expert of fencers could not have pricked him closer home than Eleanor with her simple earnestness of belief. Their faith blackened him in his own eyes; their affection stung; their tremulous apologies scourged. "Never mind, Cousin Mollie--don't cry--I'll take care of you," he said, huskily, at last. "Now let me get a carriage and send you home--and don't worry about your money, nor the rent--I'll get it back for you some way or another----" Mollie and Eleanor cried harder than ever; mingled with their ghastly visions of ultimate destitution, and much more concretely awful, had been the fear of what Gwynne would say, of what he would think when he heard the shameful news. Their tears comforted them; and I dare say that many a real sinner has touched thus the utter depth, and found there a like unexpected peace. "Oh, Gwynne, you're so good to us--and with poor Sam on your mind all the time, too--but you never think about yourself at all!" Gwynne almost smiled. Sam? What care had he given to Sam or Sam's interests of late? And of whom had he been thinking, if not solely of himself? "Now promise me you won't worry," he said, urgently kind. "I'll fix it all right----" "You've been saying that a good while to _me_, and nothing's come of it so far," said Steven distrustfully. "Hope you ain't forgetting that it's Sam's money, too, you've been letting go all this year and a half?" "I'm not forgetting it, Cousin Steven," said Gwynne, turning his haggard eyes on the other. "I won't forget Sam."