ay did not care to let it be seen that he saw; if a
woman turned out to avoid him, no evidence that he understood darkened
his eyes. He had a good-humored word to speak always; he lifted his
hat to the banker's wife, as he had always done; he mingled with the
crowd when there were "exercises" at the little schoolhouse; he warmly
congratulated Miss Porter, the crabbed old-maid teacher, on the work
she had accomplished and made her wonder fleetingly if there wasn't a
bit of good in the man, after all. Perhaps there was; there is in most
men. And Florrie Engle was beginning to wonder the same thing. For
Rod Norton, recovered and about his duties, was not quite the same
touchingly heroic figure he had been while lying unconscious and in
danger of his life. Nor was it any part of Florrie Engle's nature to
remain long either upon the heights or in the depths of an emotion.
The night of the shooting she had cried out passionately against
Galloway; as days went their placid way and she saw Galloway upon each
one of them . . . and did not see a great deal of Norton, who was
either away or monopolizing Virginia, . . . she took the first step in
the gambler's direction by beginning to be sorry for him. First, it
was too bad that Mr. Galloway did the sort of things which he did; no
doubt he had had no mother to teach him when he was very young. Next,
it was a shame that he was blamed for everything that had to happen;
maybe he was a . . . a bad man, but Florrie simply didn't believe he
was responsible for half of the deeds laid at his door. Finally,
through a long and intricate chain of considerations, the girl reached
the point where she nodded when Galloway lifted his hat. The smile in
the man's eyes was one of pure triumph.

"Oh, my dear!" Florrie burst into Virginia's room, flushed and
palpitant with her latest emotion. "He has told me all about it, and
do you know, I don't believe that we have the right to blame him?
Doesn't it say in the Bible or . . . or somewhere, that greater praise
or something shall no man have than he who gives his life for a friend?
It's something like that, anyway. Aren't people just horrid, always
blaming other people, never stopping to consider their reasons and
impulses and looking at it from their side? Vidal Nunez was a friend
of Mr. Galloway's; he was in Mr. Galloway's house. Of course . . ."

"I thought that you didn't speak to him any more."

"I didn't for a long time. But if