As these thoughts floated past him, he saw the young squatter wither under a giggle from a girl in the corner.
"Look at her feet," were the words that changed Tessibel's frankness to embarrassment, her eager pathos to wofulness.
Tessibel shrank close to the door, for the first time realizing how out of place she was.
"I were—I were—a fool to come, but—but—"
The earnestness of the vibrant voice, the proud, appealing young face moved Frederick to pity and self-reproach.
"It was right—you should have come," said he, gently taking her hands, "and no one dare question your privilege to ask a prayer for your father."
Still retaining her fingers in his, he turned, explaining:
"This is Miss Skinner whose father is suffering now from a stroke of the law. We, who have fathers and mothers whom we love, must wish her well."
Tessibel sank down, down, among her boots and rags, his words reducing her to tears. Teola came to her brother's side. She had never before been actually in the presence of a squatter, for, when they had brought fish and berries to the back door, her mother had always ordered the children to the front of the house; but now, filled with sympathy she stooped down and placed her hand upon Tessibel's head. The touch was so gentle that the fishermaid lifted her eyes to see who sorrowed with her.