It was past mid-day, and Douglas was about to leave for home when Mrs.
Dempster detained him.

"Don't go yit, sir," she told him. "Stop an' have a bite with us. Empty'll feel mighty pleased if ye will. We haven't much for dinner, but ye'r welcome to what we have, an' we'll eat it right under the shade of that big apple tree. We ginerally do that on bright Sundays, fer dear knows we eat often enough in the house."

The widow was greatly pleased when Douglas consented to stay, and at once roused her son to action.

"Hi, thar, Empty," she called, "wake up an' git a hustle on. I want a pail of water, an' then ye kin carry out the dishes. I do believe that boy'd sleep all the time," she grumbled. Nevertheless, she watched him with motherly pride as he slowly rose from the ground, stretched himself and looked around.

"Ain't dinner ready yit, ma?" he asked. "I'm most starved t' death."

"No, it ain't, an' it won't be to-day if ye don't hurry. We've special company fer dinner an' I want ye to behave yerself. If ye do, I'll give ye an extry piece of strawberry shortcake."

Douglas was greatly amused at the conversation and candour of the mother and son. They understood each other perfectly, and were not the least bit abashed at the presence of strangers. There was no polished veneer about the widow's hospitality. She did not pretend to be what she was not. She knew that she was poor and was not ashamed of it. She was perfectly natural, and indulged in no high-flown airs.

But Mrs. Dempster was a good manager, a capable housekeeper and an excellent cook. The table-cloth she spread upon the grass under the tree was spotless.

"We used this on our weddin' day," she informed Douglas who was watching her. "Dear old Parson Winstead married us in the church, an' then he came over an' had dinner with us. Me an' John had the house all fixed up, an' some of the neighbours helped with the dinner. My, them was great days," and she gave a deep sigh as she stood for a moment looking off across the field. "We was all equal then, jist like one big, happy family, an' good Parson Winstead was to us like a father. But, goodness me! if I keep gassin' this way, dinner'll never be ready," and she hurried off to the kitchen.

When Mrs. Dempster brought Joe from the house he was a greatly changed man. His step was elastic, his head erect and his eyes shone with a new hope. He ate well, too, almost the first he had eaten in several days, so he informed his companions.

It was a pleasant company which gathered under the shade of the old apple tree. Empty had received his second piece of strawberry shortcake, and was satisfied. When dinner was over, he once more stretched himself out upon the ground and resumed the sleep which his mother had disturbed.

During the meal Mrs. Dempster had been flitting to and fro between the house and the apple tree. There was always something she had to attend to, so she explained when Douglas remonstrated, telling her that she should eat something herself, and never mind the rest. But she would not listen, as she had to look after the fire, get a plateful of doughnuts, and most important of all, to see how the invalid was making out with her dinner.

"The poor dear has eaten more than she has any time since she's been sick," she told them with pride, after one of her visits to the house. "An' there's a little tinge of colour, too, in her white cheeks, an' she really smiled an' thanked me when I took her in her dinner."

"That is encouraging, isn't it?" Douglas asked. Joe said nothing though his eyes never left the widow's face, and he listened almost breathlessly to her slightest word about Jean.

"It is a good sign," Mrs. Dempster replied, as she sat upon the ground and poured for herself a cup of tea. "An' it's another good sign that she wants to see you, sir."

"See me!" Douglas exclaimed in surprise. "Why is that a good sign?"

"'Cause she hasn't wanted to see any one since she's been sick."

"What does she want to see me for?"

"To thank ye for playin', most likely. She made me tell her who it was, as she was most curious to know. She's takin' an interest in things now, an' that's encouragin'."

When Mrs. Dempster had finished her dinner, she rose to her feet and informed Douglas that she was ready to take him to see Jean.

"You jist make yerself comfortable, Joe, an' I'll be back in a jiffy.
Lean aginst that tree an' rest ye'r poor old back. It's always good to
have something to lean aginst. Since John died Empty's the only thing
I've got to lean aginst, though I must say he's mighty wobbly at times."

Douglas followed Mrs. Dempster into the little bedroom off the kitchen where the invalid girl was lying. He was somewhat startled by the marked contrast between Jean's white face and her jet-black hair which was flowing over the pillow in rich confusion. She smiled as she reached out her thin hand and welcomed the visitor.

"Ye'd better set right down here, sir," Mrs. Dempster advised, as she drew up a chair. "I'm goin' to leave yez to have a nice little chat while I clear up the dinner dishes. It'll do ye a heap of good, won't it, dear?" and she stroked Jean's head. "But ye mustn't talk too much."

Douglas glanced around the little room. It was a cosy place, and the partly-opened window let in the fresh air from the surrounding fields, together with the sound of the twitter of birds and the hum of bees.

"This was my room," the widow explained, "until Jean took possession of it. She wanted to stay right close to me an' wouldn't go to the spare-room off the parlour. I haven't had time to fix it up, an' I've asked Empty time an' time agin to git somethin' to put over that stove-pipe hole in the wall, an' that one in the ceilin'. But my land! ye might as well save ye'r breath as to ask that boy to do anything. But, there now, I must be off."

The good woman's face was beaming as she left the house and went back to the apple tree.

"Where's Empty?" she demanded of Joe, when she discovered that the lad was nowhere to be seen.

"I don't know," was the reply. "He got up just after you left, but I didn't notice where he went."

"That's jist like the boy. He's never around when he's wanted. He does try my patience at times," and the widow gave a deep sigh as she began to gather up the dishes.

In the meantime, Jean and Douglas were engaged in an earnest conversation. It was somewhat constrained at first, but this feeling shortly vanished.

"It was so good of you to play for me," Jean remarked. "I feel better than I have for days. I guess the music has chased the clouds away."

"I am so thankful that I have been able to help you," Douglas replied.
"You have had a hard time of late."

"Indeed I have. It seems to me that I have had a terrible dream. Oh, it was horrible."

"You must forget all about that now, and get well as soon as possible."

"Why should I get better? What have I to live for?"

"You must live for your parents' sake, if for nothing else. They have been heart-broken over you."

"I know it, I know it," and Jean placed her hands to her face as if to hide a vision which rose suddenly before her. "But you do not know my past life. You have little idea how I have suffered, both mentally and bodily."

"Perhaps I understand more than you imagine. Anyway, I know how you looked the night I dragged you out of the water at Long Wharf."

Douglas never forgot the expression which, overspread Jean's face as he uttered these words. Her large dark eyes grew wide with amazement and a nameless terror. She clutched the bed-clothes with her tense hands, and made a motion as if to rise.

"Please do not get excited, Miss Benton," he urged. "I would not mention this now, only there is much at stake, and I want your assistance."

"And it was you who saved me?" she gasped.

"Yes, with the help of an old tug-boatman. I saw Ben Stubbles push you off the wharf into the harbour and then leave you to your fate."

"Oh!" It was all that Jean could say, as the terrible memory of that night swept over her.

"Have you seen Ben lately?" Douglas asked.

"Not since the night of the dance at the hall."

"There is good reason why he doesn't come to see you, is there not?"

"Indeed there is," and Jean's eyes flashed with a sudden light of anger. "Nell Strong has taken him from me; that's what she has done. Oh, I'll get even with her yet."

"You are altogether mistaken. Ben is the one to blame. Miss Strong has not wronged you. She dislikes the man, and has refused to have anything more to do with him."

"But why did she meet him night after night by that old tree in front of her home, tell me that?"

"She was afraid of the Stubbles, both father and son. Simon Stubbles has a mortgage on the Strong place, and if she turned Ben away and would not meet him, the little home would have been taken. Miss Strong has done it now, however, and so I suppose the home will go."

"Are you sure of what you say?" Jean asked in a low voice.

"Yes, I am certain. Ben has been using every effort to win Miss Strong, and he is very angry at me because he imagines that I have turned her against him. The professor and his daughters have been very kind to me, and on several occasions I have been at their house. Once, on my way home, Ben had two men lying in wait for me with clubs. Fortunately, I was able to defend myself, and so escaped serious injury."

"Are you positive it was Ben who set them on!" Jean asked.

"Oh, yes, there is no doubt about it. I found a letter from him in the pocket of the coat of one of the men who attacked me. I have the coat now in my possession as well as the letter. The latter speaks for itself."

"And so Ben did that!" Jean murmured to herself.

"But that is not all, Miss Benton. You have heard, I suppose, what he did Friday night?"

"Yes, Mrs. Dempster has told me all about it. And you think Ben was back of that, too?"

"Indeed he was. The two men we caught said so, and they are to swear to it at the trial, and bring the other men who were with them."

"Will there be a trial?"

"It will be held to-morrow in the hall at the Corner. I am going to put a stop to such attacks and bring the guilty ones to task, if it is at all possible. It is a very strange thing for one family to rule a community like this, persecute innocent men, and drive them from the parish. It is a mystery to me that the people have permitted it for so long."

"Who will conduct the trial?" Jean enquired.

"Squire Hawkins. He is the only Justice of the Peace here."

"But he won't dare do anything to Ben. He is frightened almost to death of the Stubbles."

"I know he is, and for that reason I want your assistance."

"What can I do?" Jean asked in surprise.

"You can tell what Ben did to you at Long Wharf. That will prove what a villain he really is. Why, he intended to drown you that night, and he would have succeeded if I had not happened to be present. You can make your sworn statement to Squire Hawkins who can come here, so it will not be necessary for you to go to the trial."

Jean buried her face in her hands at these words and remained very silent. Douglas watched her for a few minutes, and a deep pity for this unfortunate woman came into his heart.

"Come," he urged, "won't you back me up? I have entered into this fight and need all the assistance I can get. If I am defeated, no one will dare to undertake such a thing again."

"I can't do it," Jean moaned. "Oh, I can't tell on Ben."

"Why not? He tried to drown you, and he cares for you no longer. He is a menace to the whole community."

"I know it, I know it," the girl sobbed. "But I shall never tell on
Ben, no, never."

"But he has ruined your whole life, remember, and he may ruin others as innocent as you were, if he is not stopped. Think of that."

"Haven't I thought of it day and night, until I have been about crazy?
But it is no use, I cannot tell on him."

"And are you willing to let him go free that he may do the same villainous things in the future that he has done in the past? A word from you will stir the parish to its very depths. If the people only knew what Ben did to you at Long Wharf that night, they would rise and drive him from the place. If I told what I know they would not believe me. But if you confirm what I say, that will make all the difference."

"Please do not urge me," Jean pleaded. "I cannot do it."

"You must love him still."

"No, I do not love him now," and the girl's voice was low.

"What hinders you, then, from telling?"

"It is the love I had for him in the past. That is one of the sweet memories of my life. Nothing can ever take it from me. No matter what he has done, and no matter what may happen to me, it is something to look back upon those days which are almost sacred to me now. But there, it is no use for me to say anything more. It is difficult for me to explain, and harder, perhaps, for you to understand."

With a deep sigh of weariness, Jean closed her eyes and turned her face on the pillow. Knowing that nothing more could be accomplished, and chiding himself that he had tired her, Douglas rose to go.

"Just a moment, please," Jean said, as she again opened her eyes. "Are you sure that Nell does not care for Ben? Tell me once more."

"Miss Strong told me so herself," Douglas replied. Then in a few words he related the scene that had taken place in front of the Jukes' house on Friday afternoon. "Doesn't that prove the truth of what I have said?" he asked in conclusion.

"Thank you very much," was the only reply that Jean made, as she again closed her eyes and turned her face toward the wall.

It was about the middle of the afternoon when Empty came out of the house and strolled over to where his mother was sitting alone under the apple tree.

"Where in the world have you been?" she demanded as he approached.

"Asleep," and the boy gave a great yawn and stretched himself.

"Well, I declare! When will ye ever git enough sleep? Ye'll have nuthin' but a sheep's head if ye keep on this way."

Empty made no reply as he sat down upon the ground by his mother's side. He was too happy to take offence at anything she might say. He had heard a great piece of news through the stove-pipe hole in the ceiling of the little bedroom. Empty had a reputation to sustain, and his conscience never troubled him as to how his news was obtained.