“Andrew Bolton came to see me in the parsonage this morning. He is a ruined man, in every sense of the word. He will never be otherwise.” Jim Dodge thrust both hands deep in his trousers’ pockets, his eyes fixed and frowning. “Well,” he murmured; “what of that?” “That being the case, all we can do is to make the best of things—for her.... She requested me to make the facts known in the village. They would have found out everything from the man himself. He is—perhaps you are aware that Bolton bitterly resents his daughter’s interference. She would have been glad to spare him the pain of publicity.” The minister’s tone was calm, even judicial; and Jim Dodge suddenly experienced a certain flat humiliation of spirit. “I didn’t know she asked you to tell,” he muttered, kicking a pebble out of the way. “That puts a different face on it.” He eyed the minister steadily. “I’ll be hanged if I can make you out, Elliot,” he said at last. “You can’t blame me for thinking— Why did you come here this afternoon, anyway?” A sudden belated glimmer of comprehension dawned upon the minister. “Are you in love with Miss Orr?” he parried. “None of your damned business!” “I was hoping you were,” the minister said quietly. “She needs a friend—one who will stand close, just now.” “Do you mean—?” “I am going to marry Fanny.” “The devil you are!” The minister smiled and held out his hand. “We may as well be friends, Jim,” he said coolly, “seeing we’re to be brothers.” The young man turned on his heel. “I’ll have to think that proposition over,” he growled. “It’s a bit too sudden—for me.” Without another glance in the direction of the minister he marched toward the house. Fanny was laying the table, a radiant color in her face. A single glance told her brother that she was happy. He threw himself into a chair by the window. “Where’s mother?” he asked presently, pretending to ignore the excited flutter of the girl’s hands as she set a plate of bread on the table. “She hasn’t come back from the village yet,” warbled Fanny. She couldn’t keep the joy in her soul from singing. “Guess I’ll eat my supper and get out. I don’t want to hear a word of gossip.” Fanny glanced up, faltered, then ran around the table and threw her arms about Jim’s neck. “Oh, Jim!” she breathed, “you’ve seen him!” “Worse luck!” grumbled Jim. He held his sister off at arm’s length and gazed at her fixedly. “What you see in that chap,” he murmured. “Well—” “Oh, Jim, he’s wonderful!” cried Fanny, half laughing, half crying, and altogether lovely. “I suppose you think so. But after the way he’s treated you— By George, Fan! I can’t see—” Fanny drew herself up proudly. “Of course I haven’t talked much about it, Jim,” she said, with dignity; “but Wesley and I had a—a little misunderstanding. It’s all explained away now.”