The days flew over Alice Lorraine’s head, her only regret being that she had no opportunity to plead with Dick Cartwright to reconsider his resolve. At home, as was perhaps not unnatural, she appeared nervous and was ready to be irritable as she had never been before. She was careless of others and remiss in her duties. And yet she was not utterly so. For a new feeling for her father had been aroused in her, a pity and sympathy the girl could never have experienced otherwise. She thought much of him and wrote him two long letters in the fortnight that elapsed before Dick Cartwright left Farleigh to go in search of Reuben. On the night he was to leave, Alice, who was supposed to be in her room whither she had withdrawn early, met him at a point in the South Hollow which they had agreed upon. She entreated him to make himself known to his son and let him help make the final decision, but Cartwright was adamant. “I couldn’t explain to Reuben without letting him know that I have been in prison,” he finally explained reluctantly and quite as if that ended the argument. “Yes, but _innocently_!” she cried. “That makes little difference. I would rather die than have Reuben know he is the son of one who has been a prisoner,” he declared proudly. Alice withdrew her arm from his. “You think it so terrible a stigma as all that, Mr. Cartwright?” she demanded. “I would rather die than have Reuben know it,” he repeated warmly. “_My_ father is in prison now!” she cried. “And he--he is--he isn’t innocent!” CHAPTER XIX “We’re goin’ to have a green Christmas, sure’s you’re born,” remarked the usually stolid and reticent Bell Adams. “I only hope the rest of it don’t follow. Dear me, if that delicate motherless baby should be took!” “Bell Adams, I don’t know what you mean, talking like that to me,” cried her mistress. “Just because I’ve forced myself to endure the strong light and have changed a little outwardly, you treat me as if I were as well and strong as anyone. You used to be so careful, Bell.” That was quite true,--also that Bell had borne herself differently of late. She had not, as a matter of fact, been the same woman since the visit of Anna Miller and Joe, Junior, when she had held the baby in her arms. And since she had in some manner come to understand that the child had been offered to the household and refused by Mrs. Langley, she had been so thoroughly indignant that she could scarcely speak to her mistress. But silence being her usual role, it was only when her anger had cooled into sulkiness that Mrs. Langley felt and resented the strangeness of her demeanour. “And why you should pick out that little innocent baby--” Mrs. Langley went on in an aggrieved voice.