"I pricked my hand a minute or two before the girl passed me. As I say, she brushed against my hand, which was bleeding, and the next day I saw the blood smirched upon a white frock--and who wore it, do you think?" "I did," she answered. "Ah! Then you own it. You will own too that I have some cause of discontentment in that you have played with me, whose one thought was to serve you like an honest gentleman." And at that the stubbornness, the growing resentment at my questions, died clean out of her face. "You would have!" she cried eagerly. "You would indeed have cause for more than discontent had I played with you. But you do not mean that. You cannot think that I would use any trickeries with you. Oh! take back your words! For indeed they hurt me. You are mistaken here. I wore the frock, but it was not I who was on Castle Down that night. It was not I who brushed past you----" "And the stain?" I asked. "How it came there I do not know," she said. "But this I do know,--it was not your hand that marked it. I never knew that Cullen was on Tresco. I never saw him, much less spoke to him. You will believe that? No! Why should I have kept it secret if I had?" and her head drooped as she saw that still I did not believe. There was silence between us. She stood without changing her attitude, her head bent, her hands nervously clasping and unclasping. The wind came through the open door into the hall. Once in the silence Helen caught her breath; it was as though she checked a sob; and gradually a thought came into my mind which would serve to explain her silence--which would, perhaps, justify it--which, at all events, made of it a mistaken act of kindness. So I spoke with all gentleness--and with a little remorse, too, for the harshness I had shown: "You said we were good friends, you hoped; and, for my part, I can say that the words were aptly chosen. I am your friend--your good _friend_. You will understand? I want you also to understand that it was not even so much as friendship which brought me down to Tresco. It was Dick's sturdy example, it was my utter weariness, and some spark of shame Dick kindled in me. I was living, though upon my soul _living_ is not the word, in one tiresome monotony of disgraceful days. I had made my fortune, and in the making had somehow unlearnt how fitly to enjoy it." "But this I know," interrupted Helen, now lifting her face to me. "I never told you." "But my violin told me. Do you remember? I wanted to know you through and through, to the heart's core. So I took my violin and played to you in the garden. And your face spoke in answer. So I knew you." It was strange. This confession she made with a blush and a great deal of confusion--a confession of a trick if you will, but a trick to which no one could object, by which anyone might be flattered. But that other more serious duplicity she could deny with an unwavering assurance!