THE APOLOGY On an old oaken settle, cushioned like a church-pew, before a generous, open fire, Doris began to forget her woes.

She looked about her with interest the while she endeavoured to sip a cup of steaming milk treated with brandy that Jeff Ironside had brought her.
An old, old woman hobbled about the oak-raftered kitchen behind her while Jeff himself knelt before her and unlaced her mud-caked boots.

She would have protested against his doing this had protest been of the smallest avail, but when she attempted it he only smiled a faint, grim smile and continued his task.
As he finally drew them off she thanked him in a small, shy voice.

"You are very kind--much kinder than I deserve," she said.

"Do you know I've often thought that I ought to have come to apologize for--for ordering you off your own ground that day in the summer ?" He looked up at her as he knelt, and for the first time she heard him laugh.