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She stood motionless, gazing at him. His eyes never left her. She could not quite fathom his look, but it was undoubtedly stern.

“Mr. Mercer,” she said at last, rather piteously, “I–indeed I am grateful to you, much more than grateful. But–I can’t!”

“Rubbish!” said Mercer curtly. “If you weren’t a girl, I should tell you not to be a fool!”

She was clasping and unclasping her hands. It was to be a battle of wills. His rough speech revealed this to her. And she was ill-equipped for the conflict. His dominant personality seemed to deprive her of even the desire to fight. She remembered, with a sudden, burning flush, that she had clung to him only a little while before in her extremity of loneliness. Doubtless he remembered it too.

Yet she braced herself for the struggle. He could not, after all, compel her to accept his generosity.

“I am sorry,” she said; “I am very sorry. But, you know, there is another way in which you can help me.”

“What is that?” said Mercer.

“If you could tell me of some respectable lodging,” she said. “I have enough for one night if the charges are moderate. And even after that–if Robin doesn’t come–I have one or two little things I might sell. He is sure to come soon.”

“And if he doesn’t?” said Mercer.

Her fingers gripped each other.

“I am sure he will,” she said.

“And if he doesn’t?” said Mercer again.

His persistence became suddenly intolerable. She turned on him with something like anger–the anger of desperation.

“Why will you persist in trying to frighten me? I know he will come. I know he will!”

“You don’t know,” said Mercer. “I am not frightening you. You were afraid before you ever spoke to me.”

He spoke harshly, without pity, and still his eyes dwelt resolutely upon her. He seemed to be watching her narrowly.

She did not attempt to deny his last words. She passed them by.

“I shall write to Bowker Creek. He may have mistaken the date.”

“He may,” said Mercer, in a tone she did not understand. “But, in the meantime, why should you turn your back upon the only friend you have at hand? It seems to me that you are making a fuss over nothing. You have been brought up to it, I daresay; but it isn’t the fashion here. We are taught to take things as they come, and make the best of ’em. That’s what you have got to do. It’ll come easier after a bit.”

“It will never come easily to me to–to live on charity,” she protested, rather incoherently.

“But you can pay me back,” said Brett Mercer.

She shook her head.

“Not if–if Robin—-“

“I tell you, you can!” he insisted stubbornly.

“How?” She turned suddenly and faced him. There was a hint of defiance, or, rather, daring, in her manner. She met his look with unswerving resolution. “If there is a good chance of my being able to do that,” she said, “even if–even if Robin fails me, I will accept your help.”

“You will be able to do it,” said Mercer.

“How?” she asked again.

“I will tell you,” he said, “when you are quite sure that Robin has failed you.”

“Tell me now!” she pleaded. “If it is some work that you can find for me to do–and I will do anything in the world that I can–it would be such a help to me to know of it. Won’t you tell me what you mean? Please do!”

“No,” said Mercer. “It is only a chance, and you may refuse it. I can’t say. You may feel it too much for you to attempt. If you do, you will have to endure the obligation. But you shall have the chance of paying me back if you really want it.”

“And you won’t tell me what it is?” she said.

“No.” He got to his feet, and stood looking down at her. “I can’t tell you now. I am not in a position to do so. I am going away for a few days. You will wait here till I come back?”