"I do trust you," she said earnestly. "You stood between me and that brute to-night; I peeped out and saw you. I could not hear what you said; I only saw him go down again. I bless you for that, Tinman." "You see me only as a servant," I whispered, "but I was not always like that. I want to say to you what is in my heart. Your eyes smile at me, and so I can speak with more confidence. You love this boy?" To my surprise she was not in the least annoyed at my bluntness of speech; she blushed quickly and prettily, and nodded. "Yes," she said. "And it is easy to see that he loves you. And you ask me what you are to do?" I went on. "Surely it is in your own hands, and in his?" "But I would like you to tell me," she coaxed. "Of course I know in my own mind what I want to do, or I suppose I shouldn't be a woman; but one likes to hear what a friend will say about a matter like this. Tell me." "I should advise you--both of you--to get away from this house, and to start your lives in the best sense somewhere else," I whispered earnestly. "You have no friends here--no, not even your father; he would marry you to this other man in sheer dread of him. Youth only comes to you once, child, and you must grasp it with both hands, and hold it as long as possible. Take your lives into your hands, and go away, out into the big clean world that loves lovers." "You say just what is in my own heart, Tinman," she whispered, smiling, "and you speak as though you knew all about it." "Oh, ever so long ago I knew something about it--and one never forgets. My life went down into the shadowy places of the world, and was wrecked and lost; I would not have yours do that." "Why do you think so tenderly of me?" she asked. "Because you look at me with the eyes of the woman I loved," I answered her. "Where is she now?--what became of her?" she whispered gently. "She's dead." She took my rough hand, and gave it a little squeeze. I opened the door to go out, and she whispered that I had comforted her, and that now she could sleep. For a little time after that I sat outside the door, with my arms round my knees, staring into the darkness, and thinking that, after all, God had blessed me rather more than I deserved. In the grey dawn I stole up to my room at the top of the house, and lay down, dressed as I was, on the bed to snatch some further sleep. It was late next morning when I heard Murray Olivant bawling my name, and demanding with oaths to know where I was. Somehow or other some of my dread of the man had left me; I had a power I had not before guessed at. I went to find him, and stood before him--a stronger man than he, in the sense that I was calm and silent, while he raved at me, and cursed me, and showed himself a meaner, smaller thing with every word he spluttered out. And I think he knew it, and chafed at that violence he could not repress.