ife had already been of great use
to him, on several occasions, in creating an atmosphere of trust about
him. He really could not keep her out of his talk for more than five
minutes at a time; all topics led up to her sooner or later.

When he now rose to go, Miss Northwick said, "I'm sorry my father isn't
at home, and I'm sorry I can't give you any information about the
troubles."

"Oh, I shall go to the Mills, to-morrow," he interrupted cheerily. Her
relenting emboldened him to say, "You must have a beautiful place, here,
in summer, Miss Northwick."

"I like it all times of the year," she answered. "We've all been
enjoying the winter so much; it's the first we've spent here for a long
time." She felt a strange pleasure in saying this; her reference to
their family life seemed to reassure her of its unbroken continuity, and
to warrant her father's safety.

"Yes," said Pinney, "I knew you had let your house in town. I think my
wife would feel about it just as you do; she's a great person for the
country, and if it wasn't for my work on the paper, I guess I sh'd have
to live there."

Miss Northwick took a mass of heavy-headed jacqueminot roses from the
vase where they drooped above the mantel, and wrapping them in a paper
from the desk, stiffly offered them to Pinney. "Won't you carry these to
your wife?" she said. This was not only a recognition of Pinney's worth
in being so fond of his wife, but a vague attempt at propitiation. She
thought it might somehow soften the heart of the interviewer in him, and
keep him from putting anything in the paper about her. She was afraid to
ask him not to do so.

"Oh, thank you," said Pinney. "I didn't mean to--it's very kind of
you--I assure you." He felt very queer to be remanded to the purely
human basis in relation to these people, and he made haste to get away
from that interview. He had nothing to blame himself for, and yet he now
suddenly somehow felt to blame. In the light of the defaulter's home
life, Northwick appeared his victim. Pinney was not going to punish him,
he was merely going to publish him: but all the same, for that moment,
it seemed to him that he was Northwick's persecutor, and was hunting him
down, running him to earth. He wished that poor old girl had not given
him those flowers; he did not feel that he could take them to his wife;
on the way back to the station he stepped aside from the road and
dropped them into the deep snow.

His wife met him at