d I feel quite rich."

It struck Percival that Judith had managed better than he had. "Do you
ever hear from him?" he asked.

"Yes. Mr. Nash has forgiven them."

"Already?"

Judith nodded: "He has, though I thought he never would. Bertie
understood him better."

(The truth was, that she had taken impotent rage for strength of
purpose. Mr. Nash was aware that he had neglected his daughter, and was
anxious to stifle the thought by laying the blame on every one else. And
Bertie was quicker than Judith was in reading character when it was on
his own level.)

"He has forgiven them," Percival repeated with a smile. "Well, Bertie is
a lucky fellow."

"So is my father lucky, if that is luck."

"Your father?"

"Yes. He has written to me and to my aunt Lisle--at Rookleigh, you know.
He has taken another name, and it seems he is getting on and making
money: _he_ wanted to send me some too. And my aunt is angry with me
because I would not go to her. She has given me two months to make up my
mind in."

"And you will not go?"

"I cannot leave Brenthill," said Judith. "She is more than half inclined
to forgive Bertie too. So I am alone; and yet I am right." She uttered
the last words with lingering sadness.

"No doubt," Percival answered. They were walking slowly through a quiet
back street, with a blank wall on one side. "Still, it is hard," he
said.

There was something so simple and tender in his tone that Judith looked
up and met his eyes. She might have read his words in them even if he
had not spoken. "Don't pity me, Mr. Thorne," she said.

"Why not?"

"Oh, because--I hardly know why. I can't stand it when any one is kind
to me, or sorry for me, sometimes at Mrs. Barton's. I don't know how to
bear it. But it does not matter much, for I get braver and braver when
people are hard and cold. I really don't mind that half as much as you
would think, so you see you needn't pity me. In fact, you mustn't."

"Indeed, I think I must," said Percival. "More than before."

"No, no," she answered, hurriedly. "Don't say it, don't look it, don't
even let me think you do it in your heart. Tell me about yourself. You
listen to me, you ask about me, but you say nothing of what you are
doing."

"Working." There was a moment's hesitation. "And dreaming," he added.

"But you have been ill?"

"Not I."

"You have not been ill? Then you are ill. What makes you so pale?"

He laughed: "Am I pale?"

"And you look tired."