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For the second time within that week, Taffendale, smoking his last pipe before going to bed, heard a knock at his door, and again he started in his chair, wondering who could come at such a late hour. But when he opened the door he was not surprised to see Perris's wife; something had told him as he walked down the hall that it was she who stood on his threshold.

Rhoda had fled away from the Cherry-trees in the linen gown in which she had worked all day. The wind had blown the red-gold hair about her face; her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were unnaturally bright; her lips were parted; one hand was clutching the bosom of her gown. And though he was not surprised at the sight of her, Taffendale started as the light of the lamp fell on her face.

"Mrs. Perris!" he exclaimed.

Rhoda 'stepped in without ceremony.

"Let me come in, Mr. Taffendale," she said. "I—I've come on purpose."

Taffendale silently motioned her to go forward to the parlour; he closed the front door, and soon followed her there.

"What is it?—what's wrong?" he asked. "You haven't come across the fields like that?"

Rhoda was tugging at something which she kept within the bosom of her gown. In her excitement she tore the gown open, revealing more of herself than she was aware of; Taffendale saw that she was unconscious of what she was doing. She pulled out a canvas bag, and laid it on the table between them.

"I've brought your money back," she panted. "At least, what there is left of it. I—I never ought to have come and borrowed. It's no good, Mr. Taffendale—no good! It'll only be wasted. I wish I'd never troubled you. But I'll work myself to skin and bone to pay you back."

Taffendale laid his hand on her arm, and gently pushed her into the chair which he had just quitted.

"Sit down," he said. "Come, now, what's it all about? What's gone wrong? Is it—Perris?"

Rhoda yielded unconsciously to his touch, and sank into the chair. He saw a look that was not far from intense hatred cross her face, and her eyes flashed as she gave him a swift glance.

"Perris!" she exclaimed. "Who else should it be but Perris? I wish to God I'd died the day I set eyes on him! It's no use trying to help a thing like him—he isn't a man, that!"

"Take your time, now," said Taffendale. He went over to the sideboard and brought her a glass of his old port. "Drink it." he said authoritatively.

"Drink it—it'll do you good. And now—what's it all about?"

Rhoda poured out her story to him, gaining relief in confession. Help Perris any further she would not. He could go to the dogs for all she would do to stop him. And when she had made an end of her story she leapt to her feet looking very determined.

"Anyway, I've brought your money back, Mr. Taffendale—what there is left of it, and I'll repay you the rest," she said. "I'll leave that man, and—"

"Stop a bit, stop a bit!" Taffendale broke in. "I lent that money to you, not to Perris. Now then, take that bag back, Mrs. Perris, and just—try again. A man's apt to forget himself at a rent dinner. Take it back, and I'll come and have a talk to Perris to-morrow. Here, put the money in your pocket again."

Rhoda stared at him.

"Do you mean that?" she said suddenly.

"Of course I mean it," answered Taffendale quietly. "It's you that's going to pull things round, don't you see? Come, now, do as I say—put the money up again."

Rhoda hid the canvas bag in her bosom, still staring at him.

"That's right," said Taffendale. "Now, then, I'm going to see you home. And so you came out without anything; here's an old shawl of my housekeeper's—put it on."

But instead of waiting for Rhoda to take the shawl, he wrapped it round her himself. Then he picked up his cap and his stick, and together they went out of the house and into the silence of the night.