Ernie, under the tossing willow-plumes, awaited him coldly. Alf seemed to feel that he had run up against the wall of the other's hostility. He stopped short, turned abruptly once more, and bustled away, jerking a handful of words over his shoulder. "All right," he said. "Have it your own way. Only don't blame me. That's all. But there is a law in the land." Ernie stood with folded arms, and watched his brother across the Tye and out of sight. Then thoughtfully he mounted the steps of the cottage, knocked at the door, and entered the kitchen. Ruth sat by the fire, staring into it, on her face that formidable look of an animal driven to bay he had before remarked. He stood in the door and watched her. "Ruth," he said at last. Her profile was to him, her hands bound about her knees. She did not stir, but she was aware of his presence. "He ain't got nothing against you, Alf ain't?" Ernie continued. His face was wrung, his voice thick and unnatural. Ruth rose slowly; slowly she came to him, and put both hands on his shoulders. She lifted her face, and it was blind and quivering. "O, Ernie!" she cried. "It was him drove me that day." Ernie smiled, in his relief his hands clasping her elbows, his eyes dwelling on her twittering lids. "I knaw'd that then," he answered broadly. She opened her eyes on him swiftly, and stared aghast. "Did you?" she panted. "How?" "I saw ye." She huddled closer to him, and laid her head upon his shoulder as though to hide her face. "Where did you see me?" she whispered. "At the Decoy. East Gate. That afternoon." Suddenly she drooped, and seemed to hang about him. He put his arms about her; otherwise she would surely have fallen. He sank into a chair; and it was some while before she gathered herself and rose. One hand on the mantel-piece, she stood gazing into the fire, panting. "Alf's the only one as knows who he was--only you and Madame," she said at last. "And you're safe." She lifted her eyes to his and continued appealingly. "He done me wrong, Ernie. But he's her father all said. And I wouldn't for worlds any harm come to him through me. He was mine one time o day, tany rate. And I must protect him, best I can." "He can protect himself, I reck'n," said Ernie bitterly. "Don't ardly need you to see to him, I reck'n." She looked up swiftly. "It'd wreck his career if it was known. They'd bowl him out of the Army surely." "Who told you that?" asked Ernie. For a fraction of a second she hesitated. "He did," she said: and instantly saw her mistake. Ernie rose, slow and white. "Does he write then still?" She felt the storms beating about her, and her bosom heaved. "Only that once," she answered at length and lamely. Ernie came pressing in on her with ruthless determination. "May I see the letter?" She flashed up at him with astonishing ferocity. "No," and added heavily--"It's burnt."