er comely lips had parted as her breath came heavy and
fast. At last she burst out with a curious mixture of anger and sorrow
in her words.

"Bone of my Silas; flesh of my flesh; an' to think o' the like. My
Hervey a whelp of hell; a bloodsucker. Oh, that I should ha' lived to
see such a day," and she rocked herself, with her hand supporting her
head and her elbows planted upon her knees. "Oh, them travellin's in
foreign parts. My poor, poor Silas; if he'd jest lived long 'nough to
git around our boy with a horsewhip we might ha' been spared this
disgrace. Prudence, girl, I'm that sorry for what I've said to you."

Tears welled in the old eyes, which had now become very wistful, and
slowly rolled down the plump cheeks. Suddenly she gathered up her
apron and flung it up over her head, and the rocking continued
dismally. Prudence came over to her and knelt at her side, caressing
her stout figure in sympathy. Sarah sat looking away towards the
window with dreamy eyes. The old school-mistress made no comment; she
was thinking deeply.

"Don't cry, mother," said Prudence, with an ominous catch in her
voice. "Whatever Hervey's faults, he will reap his own punishment. I
want you to help me now, dear. I want you to give me the benefit of
your experience and your sound, practical sense. I must see this
through. I have a wicked brother and an obstinate lover to deal with,
and I want you to help me, and tell me what is best to do."

The apron was removed from Mrs. Malling's head, and her eyes, red and
watery, looked at the girl at her side with a world of love in their
depths.

"These two men will be here this afternoon," the girl went on. "George
is coming to tell you his story himself, that you may judge him. He
declares that, come what may, he will not rest with this shadow upon
him. In justice to us, his friends, and to himself, he must face the
consequences of his years of wrongdoing. Hervey will be here for his
money. This is the position; and, according to my reckoning, they will
arrive at about the same time. I don't quite know why, but I want to
confront Hervey with the man he accuses. Now tell me what you think."

"I'm thinking you make the third of a pack of fool-heads," said the
farm-wife gently. "George is no murderer, he's not the killin' sort.
He's a man, he is. Then why worrit? An' say, if that boy o' mine comes
along he'll learn that them Ar'tic goldfields is a cooler place for
his likes than his mother's fa