"Why do you think that?" he asked, half fearfully.
"Because you are that rare type of man," she returned.
"I have nothing in the way of self-defense to offer," he answered. "My early life was a mistake. I may be atoning for it a little. I sometimes hope so. You are right in one guess—some others are the better and happier for my absence. It is so that I can never return; that is settled for all time. The new life is all that I have, but I assure you it isn't bad. It is heaven compared to the one I renounced."
So the night passed. The rain ceased toward dawn, but there was little light till the sun was up. Then they fared forth over the wet, rain-washed ground for home. The sun was breaking through a cloud when they reached the old house.
Rowland was on the back porch when they appeared before him, wet to the waist from contact with the dripping weeds and bushes through which they had made their way. He seemed not much surprised.
"I thought you'd find shelter somewhere," he said, casually. "I sat up most of the night on my book. I was trying to tie the main branch of the Westleighs to our line through the Barbadoes record, and I noticed how hard it rained."
"How is Tobe Keith?" the girl broke in to ask.
"He is just the same—no better and no worse," Rowland answered. "That is a late report, too. I got it from Tom Gibbs, who passed along just now and stopped to let me know."
"Oh, I'm glad, I'm glad he is not worse!" Mary's face beamed faintly. "I was afraid we'd get bad news. Poor Martin! He may think the worst has happened." She turned to Charles. "Will you get your breakfast now, or wait till you change your clothing?"