intruder, and, despite these softening influences, made up his mind not
to say a word. It was nobody's business but his. It was his own
miserable affair. He neither asked help nor wanted it.

How, then, did the story get itself told? Collin supposed that Trudy
must have started it, for he did not.

He sat bewildered by all this strange and unwelcome situation, while
slowly, drawn out by questions and gentle comments, his trouble was
told.

His first weak mistake, the disaster at Buxton, Trudy's attempt at
righting matters and her failure, and all the dreary facts of the
present condition of things. By degrees, the lady who sat with
thoughtfully-lowered eyes and knit brows heard it all.

"Don't think it was _my_ idea to tell you, ma'am," Collin ended, the
blood mounting in his sturdy face.

"Doesn't mamma know that?" Rosalie cried, impatiently.

She had got her way, and she was highly satisfied.

"And don't think I'm asking you to do anything for me," Collin proudly
persisted. "I don't know what you _could_ do; I don't expect anything--I
didn't want to come in."

"And she knows all that, too," said Rosalie, knocking down his protests
like tenpins.