"You shouldn't have done it," he stammered. "Indeed, indeed, you are
much too good. But you shouldn't have come."

His voice shook slightly.

"Why not?" asked Mary Cahill. "I couldn't let you go hungry."

"You know it isn't that," he said; "it's your coming here at all.
Why, only three of the fellows have been near me this morning. And
they only came from a sense of duty. I know they did--I could feel
it. You shouldn't have come here. I'm not a proper person; I'm an
outlaw. You might think this was a pest-house, you might think I was
a leper. Why, those Stickney girls have been watching me all morning
through a field-glass." He clasped and unclasped his fingers around
the palings. "They believe I did it," he protested, with the
bewildered accents of a child. "They all believe it."

Miss Cahill laughed. The laugh was quieting and comforting. It
brought him nearer to earth, and her next remark brought him still
further.

"Have you had any breakfast?" she asked.

"Breakfast!" stammered Ranson. "No. The guard brought some, but I
couldn't eat it. This thing has taken the life out of me--to think
sane, sensible people--my own people--could believe that I'd steal,
that I'd kill a man for money."

"Yes, I know," said Miss Cahill soothingly; "but you've not had any
sleep, and you need your coffee." She lifted the lid of the basket.