During all this time Jean had not once thought of the children, and Helen's injunctions had been completely forgotten. While Farr was waiting an opportunity to broach the subject that was uppermost in his mind, Jean herself opened the way for him. She had been telling him in her happiest vein of numberless incidents of her childish days; laughing outright at the memory of many a scrape and frolic, and speaking with a pathetic quiver in her voice as she showed him the reverse side of the picture, recalling those dreary days when to the poor little orphaned Lawrences, in their desolation, it seemed that the light of their lives had been forever darkened. As Farr listened to the innocent recital, told in Jean's own forceful dramatic way, he found his heart growing very tender, yet sad withal. It made him feel infinitely far away from her to hear her speak thus lovingly and trustfully of her family. Ah, yes, love was indeed the keynote of life at the manor. Farr had never realized this more strongly than he did to-day as he mentally contrasted the happy atmosphere, the tender relationships of Jean's home life, with his own unloved, unhappy boyhood. So deep was he in thought that he did not notice that Jean had ceased speaking, until she turned and called him by name. "Mr. Farr, I have been very egotistical and I want you to do me a great favor to prove that you have forgiven me." "I would find it hard to refuse you." "Do you remember that day down on the cliffs, so long ago?" Farr signified his assent, and she continued: "Well, that day you said that perhaps sometime you would tell me something of your life." Farr's face flushed with gratification, and he would have spoken but she stopped him almost imperiously. "I have thought that your 'perhaps' signified a great deal; that it was put in to save yourself in case, on further acquaintance with me, you felt that you did not want to give me your confidence, and I confess," looking up at him with a reproachful smile, "that I have been not a little hurt by your silence." "Please don't say that, Miss Jean; and do you know that, strangely enough, I came here to-day to tell you--to tell you that miserable story, but I scarcely knew how to begin it." He paused a moment, and then resumed bitterly: "I never knew half how miserable the story would sound to you until I listened to you this afternoon, and realized all that I had missed out of my life." Jean looked at him sympathetically, and her eyes urged him to continue, although she did not speak. "I am going to try not to bore you with any complaints, Miss Jean, and I must beg you not to be distressed if I speak plainly in regard to my family, with whom I am on exceedingly bad terms." "Surely that does not include Clarisse?"