"If harm came of my helping you," she began, "if—"
"Innocent blood were shed," he said.
There was bitterness in his voice.
"You're like the rest of them. Good, bad or indifferent, you herd us all together—convicts. If you mean," his eyes sought hers, "if you mean you're afraid that instead of helping to give a man another chance for his life you may be helping a wolf to harry the lambs, you're making a mistake, ma'am. I swear by all I hold sacred, you'll not repent of what you have done for me."
Mary smiled, her tension of spirit relieved.
"I believe you," she said simply.
She took Donald's working clothes from the pegs where they hung behind the door. They were worn, but whole. From the heavy sea-chest that stood in the far corner of the room she took a grey flannel shirt, also one of unbleached calico, and a pair of dingy black trousers; then she brought a pair of broken boots and a torn felt hat from the shed where the plough and tools were kept.
"There's only one hat, and I'll have to stitch it for you," she said, "but he"—with a glance at Steve who had fallen asleep again on the bed—"he won't have need of a hat for awhile with that bandage on his head, and when the cut is healed, you had better give him this one to wear, and you will be able to say you have lost yours."
The tall man glanced from Donald's heavy boots to Steve's bruised and blackened feet.
"You had better put on those yourself," Mary said, following his glance, "perhaps he could wear mine."