"I suppose he said I'd marry Tessibel Skinner. Is that it?" His voice was low, deep and intense. Wheeling about he looked across at his sister.
She got up from her chair and went to him. Her desire to placate her brother supported her determination to know his precise attitude toward her husband. She placed her hand on his arm and replied hurriedly,
"Yes, that's what he said. I told him it was no such thing; that you did what you could for the lonely child without a thought—"
Deforrest's hand closed over the speaker's.
"You were mistaken, then," he asserted quietly. "I'd have married Tessibel Skinner long ago, if she'd consented."
"Forrie, dear, you wouldn't! You couldn't! Especially now! Oh, darling, you're all I've got in the world.... Can't you see it would break my heart?"
"You needn't worry about it, sister mine." A sad shake of his head emphasized his reply. "Tess won't marry me. She knows I love her and want to care for her, but she won't let me. She sticks there in that wretched shanty, alone with her trouble and refuses every offer I make. Her courage is splendid. I love her for it, although I'm torn to pieces with anxiety."
"And I never knew," Helen mused. "I thought—I thought it was—just you were charitable and kind."
"No, it wasn't that. I've loved her since the first, but she couldn't love me, that's all. Then this awful thing happened." The deepening lines in his face and his twitching lips revealed the intensity of his solicitude. "Have you heard anything about her?"
"Yes. A man by the name of Brewer, one of the squatters, brought me a message."