are in!"

"It's nothing," said Robin. "I rolled in a bog-hole."

She looked at him anxiously.

"You are not hurt?... Sit down at least."

He sat down stiffly, and she beside him, still watching to see if he
were the worse for his falling. He took her hand in his.

"I am not fit to touch you," he said.

"Tell me the news; tell me quickly."

So he told her; of the wrangle in the parlour and what had passed
between his father and him; of his own bitterness; and his letter, and
the way in which the old man had taken it.

"He has not spoken to me since," he said, "except in public before the
servants. Both nights after supper he has sat silent and I beside him."

"And you have not spoken to him?" she asked quickly.

"I said something to him after supper on Sunday, and he made no answer.
He has done all his writing himself. I think it is for him to speak now.
I should only anger him more if I tried it again."

She sighed suddenly and swiftly, but said nothing. Her hand lay passive
in his, but her face was turned now to the bright southerly window, and