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Rh "Don't make no difference who it is," responded the old woman. "She wouldn't see the Lord from heaven."

Without further ado she closed the door and bolted it, and Barry turned sadly away.

But Mary Bradley, sitting alone in her room, thought she caught the sound of a familiar voice.

"Mother," she said, "was that Barry Malleson?"

And, without waiting for a reply, she swept across the room, unbolted the door, flung it open and called out to him:

"Barry!"

"Yes, Mary."

"Come back! I want you."

He came gladly. She took him into the little sitting-room. The shades at the windows were drawn close, and the lamp on the table burned dimly. Barry remembered the time when he came there and saw, through a partly opened doorway, the sheeted body of John Bradley lying in an adjoining room. It was not a pleasant memory.

In the half-light of the place the woman's face looked ghastly. Perhaps it was due to the way in which the shadows fell on it. Her eyes were still large and luminous indeed, but under them were dark crescents, and the fine curve of her lips was lost in a pathetic droop. Barry, looking on her, pitied her.

"I didn't come to bother you," he said. "I just wanted to see you. I wanted to tell you"

She interrupted him: "I know. You are so good. I don't deserve it. I couldn't blame you if you hated me."

"I don't hate you, Mary. I love you. I don't care what they say. I don't care what you said on the office steps that day. I love you."

"You mustn't talk that way any more, Barry. I mustn't let you. I ought never to have let you talk that way, or think that way. I did you a wrong. In my eagerness for revenge on others I did you a great