PERHAPS it showed lack of proper feeling, but Oakley managed to sleep off a good deal of his emotional stress, and when he left his hotel the next morning he was quite himself again.

His attitude towards the world was the decently cheerful one of the man who is earning a good salary, and whose personal cares are fax from being numerous or pressing. He was still capable of looking out for Cornish's interests, and his own, too, if the need arose.

He went down to the office alert and vigorous. As he strode along he nodded and smiled at the people he met on the street. If the odium of his father's crime was to attach itself to him it should be without his help. Antioch might count him callous if it liked, but it must not think him weak.

His first official act was to go for Kerr, who was unusually cantankerous, and he gave that frigid gentleman a scare which lasted him for the better part of a week. For Kerr, who had convinced himself overnight that Oakley must resign, saw himself having full swing with the Huckleberry, and was disposed to treat his superior with airy indifference. He had objected to hunting up an old order-book Dan wished to see, on the score that he was too busy, whereat, as Holt expressed it, the latter “jumped on him with both feet.” His second official act was to serve formal notice on Branyon that he was dismissed from the shops, the master-mechanic's dismissal not having been accepted as final, for Branyon had turned up that morning with a black eye as if to go to work. He was even harsh with Miss Walton, and took exception to her spelling of a typewritten letter, which he was sending off to Cornish in London.

He also inspected every department in the shops, and was glad of an excuse he discovered to reprimand Joe Stokes, who was stock-keeper in the carpenter's room, for the slovenly manner in which the stock was handled. Then he returned to the office, and as a matter of discipline kept Kerr busy all the rest of the morning hauling dusty order-books from a dark closet. He felt that if excitement was what was wanted he was the one to furnish it. He had been too easy.

He even read Clarence, whom he had long since given up as hopeless, a moving lecture on the sin of idleness, and that astonished youth, who had fancied himself proof against criticism, actually searched for things to do, so impressed and startled was he by the manager's earnestness, and so fearful was he lest he should lose his place. If that happened, he knew his father would send him to school, and he almost preferred work, so he flew around, was under everybody's feet and in everybody's way, and when Oakley left the office at half-past two, Holt forcibly ejected him, after telling him he was a first-class nuisance, and that if he Stuck his nose inside the door again he'd skin him.

Feeling deeply his unpopularity, Clarence withdrew to the yards, where he sought out Dutch Pete With tears in his eyes he begged the yard boss to find some task for him, it made no difference what, just so it was work; but Dutch Pete didn't want to be bothered, and sent him away with what Clarence felt to be a superfluity of bad words.

Naturally the office force gave a deep sigh of satisfaction when Oakley closed his desk and announced that he was going up-town and would not return. Miss Walton confided to Kerr that she just hoped he would never come back.

It was a little before three o'clock when Dan presented himself at the Emorys'. The maid who answered his ring ushered him into the parlor with marked trepidation. She was a timid soul. Then she swished from the room, but returned almost immediately to say that Miss Emory would be down in a moment.

“I wonder what's troubling her,” muttered Oakley, with some exasperation. “You'd think she expected me to take her head off.” He guessed that, like her betters, she was enjoying to the limit the sensation of which he was the innocent victim.

When Constance entered the room, he advanced a little uncertainly. She extended her hand quite cordially, however. There was no trace of embarrassment or constraint in her manner.

As he took her hand, Dan said, simply, going straight to the purpose of his call: “I have thought a good deal over what I want to tell you, Miss Emory.” Miss Emory instantly took the alarm, and was on the defensive. She enveloped herself in that species of inscrutable feminine reserve men find so difficult to penetrate. She could not imagine what he had to tell her that was so pressing. He was certainly very curious and unconventional. There was one thing she feared he might want to tell her which she was firmly determined not to hear.

Oakley drew forward a chair.

“Won't you sit down?” he asked, gravely.

“Thank you, yes.” It was all so formal they both smiled.

Dan stood with his back to the fire-place, now filled with ferns, and rested an elbow on the mantel. There was an awkward pause. At last he said, slowly:

“It seems I've been the subject of a lot of talk during the last two days, and I have been saddled with a matter for which I am in no way responsible, though it appears to reflect on me quite as much as if I were.”

“Really, Mr. Oakley”—began Constance, scenting danger ahead. But her visitor was in no mood to temporize.

“One moment, please,” he said, hastily. “You have heard the story from Mr. Ryder.”

“I have heard it from others as well.”

“It has influenced you—”

“No, I won't say that,” defiantly. She was not accustomed to being catechised.

“At least it has caused you to seriously doubt the wisdom of an acquaintance,” blurted Oakley. “You are very unfair,” rising with latent anger.

“You will greatly oblige me by sitting down again.”

And Constance, astonished beyond measure at his tone of command, sank back into her chair with a little smothered gasp of surprise. No one had ever ventured to speak to her like that before. It was a new experience.

“We've got to finish this, you know,” explained Dan, with one of his frankest smiles, and there was a genial simplicity about his smile which was very attractive. Constance, however, was not to be propitiated, but she kept her seat. She was apprehensive lest Oakley would do something more startling and novel if she attempted to cut short the interview.

She stole a glance at him from under her long lashes. He was studying the carpet, apparently quite lost to the enormity of his conduct. “You have heard their side of the story, Miss Emory. I want you to hear mine. It's only fair, isn't it? You have heard that my father is an ex-convict?”

“Yes,” with a tinge of regret.

“That he is a murderer?” plunging ahead mercilessly.

“Yes.”

“And this is influencing you?”

“I suppose it is,” helplessly. “It would naturally. It was a great shock to us all.”

“Yes,” agreed Dan, “I can understand, I think, just how you must look at it.”

“We are very, very sorry for you, Mr. Oakley. I want to explain my manner last night. The whole situation was so excessively awkward. I am sure you must have felt it.”

“I did,” shortly.

“Oh, dear, I hope you didn't think me unkind!”

“No.” Then he added, a trifle wearily, “It's taken me all this time to realize my position. I suppose I owe you some sort of an apology. You must have thought me fearfully thick-skinned.” He hoped she would say no, but he was disappointed. Her conscience had been troubling her, and she was perfectly willing to share her remorse with him, since he was so ready to assume a part of it. She was as conventional as extreme respectability could make her, but she had never liked Oakley half so well. She admired his courage. He didn't whine. His very stupidity was in its way admirable, but it was certainly too bad he could not see just how impossible he was under the circumstances.

Dan raised his eyes to hers. “Miss Emory, the only time I remember to have seen my father until he came here a few weeks ago was through the grating of his cell door. My mother took me there as a little boy. When she died I came West, where no one knew me. I had already learned that, because of him, I was somehow judged and condemned, too. It has always been hanging over me. I have always feared exposure. I suppose I can hush it up after a while, but there will always be some one to tell it to whoever will listen. It is no longer a secret.”

“Was it fair to your friends, Mr. Oakley, that it was a secret?”

“I can't see what business it was of theirs. It's nothing I have done, and, anyhow, I have never had any friends until now I cared especially about.”

“Oh!” and Miss Emory lowered her eyes. So long as he was merely determined and stupid he was safe, but should he become sentimental it might be embarrassing for them both.

“You have seen my father. Do you think from what you can judge from appearances that he would kill a man in cold blood? It was only after years of insult that it came to that, and then the other man was the aggressor. What my father did he did in self-defence, but I am pretty sure you were not told this.”

He was swayed by a sense of duty towards his father, and a desire to vindicate him—he was so passive and enduring. The intimacy of their relation had begotten warmth and sympathy. They had been drawn nearer and nearer each other. The clannishness of his blood and race asserted itself. It was a point of honor with him to stand up for his friends, and to stand up for his father most of all. Could he, he would have ground his heel into Ryder's face for his part in circulating the garbled version of the old convict's history. Some one should suffer as he had been made to suffer.

“Of course, Mr. Ryder did not know what you have told me,” Constance said, hastily. She could not have told why, but she had the uneasy feeling that Griff required a champion, that he was responsible. “Then you did hear it from Mr. Ryder?”

She did not answer, and Oakley, taking her silence for assent, continued: “I don't suppose it was told you either that he was pardoned because of an act of conspicuous heroism, that, at the risk of his own life, he saved the lives of several nurses and patients in the hospital ward of the prison where he was confined.” He looked inquiringly at Constance, but she was still silent. “Miss Emory, my father came to me to all intents an absolute stranger. Why, I even feared him, for I didn't know the kind of man he was, but I have come to have a great affection and regard for him. I respect him, too, most thoroughly. There is not an hour of the day when the remembrance of his crime is not with him. Don't you think it cowardly that it should have been ventilated simply to hurt me, when it must inevitably hurt him so much more? He has quit work in the shops, and he is determined to leave Antioch. I may find him gone when I return to the hotel.”

“And you blame Mr. Ryder for this?”

“I do. It's part of the debt we'll settle some day.”

“Then you are unjust. It was Mr. Kenyon. His cousin is warden of the prison. He saw your father there and remembered him.”

“And told Mr. Ryder,” with a contemptuous twist of the lips.

“There were others present at the time. They were not alone.”

“But Mr. Ryder furnished the men with the facts.”

“How do you know?” And once more her tone was one of defiance and defence.

“I have been told so, and I have every reason to believe I was correctly informed. Why, don't you admit that it was a cowardly piece of business to strike at me over my father's shoulder?” demanded Oakley, with palpable exasperation. The narrowness of her nature and her evasions galled him. Why didn't she show a little generous feeling. He expected she would be angry at his words and manner. On the contrary, she replied:

“I am not defending Mr. Ryder, as you seem to think, but I do not believe in condemning any one as you would condemn him—unheard.”

She was unduly conscious, perhaps, that sound morality was on her side in this.

“Let us leave him out of it. After all, it is no odds who told. The harm is done.”

“No, I shall ask Griff.”

Dan smiled, doubtfully. “That will settle it, if you believe what he tells you.”

“His denial will be quite sufficient for me, Mr. Oakley,” with chilly politeness.

There was a long pause, during which Dan looked at the carpet, and Miss Emory at nothing in particular. He realized how completely he had separated himself from the rest of the world in her eyes. The hopelessness of his love goaded him on. He turned to her with sudden gentleness and said, penitently: “Won't you forgive me?”

“I have nothing to forgive, Mr. Oakley,” with lofty self-denial, and again Dan smiled doubtfully. Her saying so did not mean all it should have meant to him.

He swept his hand across his face with a troubled gesture. “I don't know what to do,” he observed, ruefully. “The turf seems knocked from under my feet.”

“It must have been a dreadful ordeal to pass through alone,” she said. “We are so distressed for your sake.” And she seemed so keenly sympathetic that Dan's heart gave a great bound in his breast. He put aside his mounting bitterness against her.

“I don't know why I came to see you to-day. I just wanted to, and so I came. I don't want to force a friendship.”

Miss Emory murmured that no excuse was necessary.

“I am not too sure of that. I must appear bent on exhibiting myself and my woes, but I can't go into retirement, and I can't let people see I'm hurt.”

His face took on a strong resolve. He couldn't go without telling her he loved her. His courage was suddenly riotous.

“Once, not long ago, I dared to believe I might level the differences between us. I recognized what they were, but now it is hopeless. There are some things a man can't overcome, no matter how hard he tries, and I suppose being the son of a murderer is one of these.” He paused, and, raising his eyes from the carpet, glanced at her, but her face was averted. He went on, desperately: “It's quite hopeless, but I have dared to hope, and I wanted you to know. I hate to leave things unfinished.”

There was a long silence, then Miss Emory said, softly:

“I am so sorry.”

“Which means you've never cared for me,” dryly.

But she did not answer him. She was wondering how she would have felt had the confession come forty-eight hours earlier.

“I suppose I've been quite weak and foolish,” said Dan.

She looked into his face with a slow smile.

“Why do you say that? Is it weak and foolish to care for some one?”

“Wasn't it?” with suddenly kindled hope, for he found it hard to give her up.

Miss Emory drew herself together with a sigh.

“I never thought of this,” she said, which was hardly true; she had thought of it many times.

“No,” admitted Dan, innocently enough, for her lightest word had become gospel to him, such was his love and reverence. “You couldn't know.” Poor Oakley, his telling of it was the smallest part of the knowledge. “I think I see now, perfectly, how great a difference this affair of my father's must make. It sort of cuts me off from everything.”

“It is very tragic. I wish you hadn't told me just now.” Her lips trembled pathetically, and there were tears in her eyes.

“I've wanted to tell you for a long time.”

“I didn't know.”

“Of course you couldn't know,” he repeated; then he plunged ahead recklessly, for he found there was a curious satisfaction in telling her of his love, hopeless as it was.

“It has been most serious and sacred to me. I shall never forget you—never. It has helped me in so many ways just to know you. It has changed so many of my ideals. I can't be grateful enough.”

Miss Emory approved his attitude. It was as it should be. She was sorry for him. She admired his dignity and repression. It made him seem so strong and purposeful.

“You will find your happiness some day, Mr. Oakley. You will find some one more worthy than I.” She knew he would be insensible to the triteness of her remark.

“No,” generously, “that couldn't be. I'll not find any one. I'll not look.”

“Oh, but you will.”

Already, with the selfishness of her sex, and a selfishness which was greater than that of her sex, she was regretting that she had allowed him to step so easily into the position of a rejected lover.

“I don't want you to think it is going to ruin my life,” he said, quietly, “or anything of that sort.”

An appeal to her pity seemed weak and contemptible.

“I have striven to win what I can't have, what is not for me, and I am satisfied to have made the effort.”

Miss Emory bit her lip. He was going to put her out of his life entirely. It was ended, and he would do his best to forget her with what speed he might, for he loved her, and was too generous to wish her to suffer. This generosity, needless to say, was too altruistic for Constance to fully appreciate its beauties. Indeed, she did not regard it as generosity at all. She resented it. She realized that probably she would not see him again; at least the meeting would not be of his making or choosing. There was to be no sentimental aftermath. He was preparing to go, like the sensible fellow he was, for good and all, and she rebelled against the decree. It seemed brutal and harsh. She was angry, hurt, and offended. Perhaps her conscience was troubling her, too. She knew she was mean and petty.

“I don't think it could have been very serious to you, Mr. Oakley,” she murmured, gazing abstractedly from the window.

“I don't know why you think that. I can't say any more than I have said. It includes all.” She wanted to tell him he gave up too easily.

“At any rate, we are friends,” he added.

“Are you going?” she cried, with a ring of real longing and regret in her voice, lifted out of herself for the moment at the thought of losing him.

Dan nodded, and a look of pain came into his face.

“Yes, I am going.”

“But you are not going to leave Antioch?”

“Oh, no!”

And Miss Emory felt a sense of relief. She rose from her chair. “Then I shall see you again?”

“Probably,” smiling. “We couldn't well avoid seeing each other in a place the size of this.”

He held out his hand frankly.

“And I sha'n't see you here any more?” she asked, softly.

“I guess not,” a little roughly. The bitterness of his loss stung him. He felt something was wrong somewhere. He wondered, too, if she had been quite fair to him, if her ability to guard herself was entirely commendable, after all. He knew, in the end, his only memory of her would be that she was beautiful. He would carry this memory and a haunting sense of incompleteness with him wherever he went.

She placed her hand in his and looked up into his face with troubled, serious eyes.

“Good-bye.” It was almost a whisper.

Dan crossed the room to the door and flung it open. For an instant he wavered on the threshold, but a moment later he was striding down the street, with his hat jammed needlessly low over his ears, and his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets.

At the window, Constance, with a white, scared face, was watching him from between the parted curtains. She hoped he would look back, but he never once turned his head.