"There is not much more to tell, and I fear, too, that I am tiring you. No? well I took my mother at her word, and from that day to this I have never darkened her door. It came hardest on poor little Clarisse, I think," he went on sadly; "she had learned to depend upon me, and when she found that I was going to desert her she broke down completely. It wrung my heart to leave her, but it had to be done. I never like to think of that scene." "Poor Clarisse!" murmured Jean softly. "It was uphill work, at first," Farr resumed. "The lesson of poverty, with its grinding necessities, was bitter, and its bitterness redoubled by experiences that shook my faith in humanity." He flung back his head and drew a deep breath. "Somehow I lived through that first year, and then it grew easier; a maiden sister of my father's died and left me a legacy which, though small, is yet sufficient for all my needs. It is a good many years ago now, and I have only seen Clarisse once or twice, when I have happened to be in Washington in the winter. She is lonely, poor little girl; but we console each other by planning the good times we will have in some indefinite future." After a moment, he began speaking again: "I know how terrible this must seem to you, Miss Jean. A man at variance with his family is at a great disadvantage, and after all, you have only heard my side of the story. I almost dread," gloomily, "to have you tell me what you think of me now." "Oh, how unjust you are to me," cried Jean indignantly. "Do you think that your trouble could make any difference to me, except to make me sorry--oh, so sorry--for you, and to make me like you and want to be your friend more than ever." She stopped suddenly, half frightened by the look in Farr's eyes. He had grown very pale, and he spoke huskily. "You must not be so kind to me; you tempt me to tell you why----" "Jean! Jean!" This piercing cry, so fraught with terror, brought them to their feet. They started forward, and even as they did so Willie stumbled across the doorway and leaned up against the post, sobbing piteously. "Gladys, hurt," he panted, and then, his courage forsaking him, he burst into a storm of tears. Every bit of color faded from Jean's face. "What do you mean? O Willie, where is Gladys?" Farr put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Come, little man," he said kindly, "don't cry, but take a long breath. There, that's a brave little chap. Now tell your sister where Gladys is, and what has happened." "We were playing birds in a tree, and Gladys fell, and she can't get up," faltered Willie. "Where?" Jean asked sharply. "In the orchard."