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“How do you know,” he entreated, “that my daughter wouldn’t be as glad to see me as I to see her?”

“I don’t know it. I don’t know anything about it. That’s the reason I can’t have anything to do with it. I can’t justify myself in meddling with what doesn’t concern me, and in what I’m not sure but I should do more harm than good. I must say good-night. It’s getting late, and they will be anxious about me at home.” My heart smote me as I spoke the last word, which seemed a cruel recognition of Tedham’s homelessness. But I held out my hand to him for parting, and braced myself against my inward weakness.

He might well have failed to see my hand. At any rate he did not take it. He turned and started to walk out of the woods by my side. We came presently to some open fields. Beyond them was the road, and after we had climbed the first wall, and found ourselves in a somewhat lighter place, he began to speak again.

“I thought,” he said, “that if you had forgiven me, I could take it as a sign that I had suffered enough to satisfy everybody.”

“We needn’t dwell upon my share in the matter, Tedham,” I answered, as kindly as I could. “That was entirely my own affair.”

“You can’t think,” he pursued, “how much your letter was to me. It came when I was in perfect despair–in those awful first days when it seemed as if I could not bear it, and yet death itself would be no relief. Oh, they don’t know how much we suffer! If they did, they would forgive us anything, everything! Your letter was the first gleam of hope I had. I don’t know how you came to write it!”

“Why, of course, Tedham, I felt sorry for you–“

“Oh, did you, did you?” He began to cry, and as we hurried along over the fields, he sobbed with the wrenching, rending sobs of a man. “I knew you did, and I believe it was God himself that put it into your heart to write me that letter and take off that much of the blame from me. I said to myself that if I ever lived through it, I would try to tell you how much you had done for me. I don’t blame you for refusing to do what I’ve asked you now. I can see how you may think it isn’t best, and I thank you all the same for that letter. I’ve got it here.” He took a letter out of his breast-pocket, and showed it to me. “It isn’t the first time I’ve cried over it.”

I did not say anything, for my heart was in my throat, and we stumbled along in silence till we climbed the last wall, and stood on the sidewalk that skirted the suburban highway. There, under the street-lamp, we stopped a moment, and it was he who now offered me his hand for parting. I took it, and we said, together, “Well, good-by,” and moved in different directions. I knew very well that I should turn back, and I had not gone a hundred feet away when I faced about. He was shambling off into the dusk, a most hapless figure. “Tedham!” I called after him.

“Well?” he answered, and he halted instantly; he had evidently known what I would do as well as I had.

We reapproached each other, and when we were again under the lamp I asked, a little awkwardly, “Are you in need of money, Tedham?”

“I’ve got my ten years’ wages with me,” he said, with a lightness that must have come from his reviving hope in me. He drew his hand out of his pocket, and showed me the few dollars with which the State inhumanly turns society’s outcasts back into the world again.

“Oh, that won’t do.” I said. “You must let me lend you something.”