She drew back a little and looked down at her mother, smiling brilliantly. “And don’t you worry another minute about me, mother,” she said resolutely. “I’m all right.” “Oh, I do hope so, child,” returned her mother, sniffing back her ready tears. “I’d hate to feel that you—” The girl hurried to the door, where her brother stood watching her. “Come on, Jim,” she said. “We have to stop for Ellen.” She followed him down the narrow path to the gate, holding her crisp white skirts well away from the dew-drenched border. As the two emerged upon the road, lying white before them under the brilliant moonlight, Fanny glanced up timidly at her brother’s dimly seen profile under the downward sweep of his hat-brim. “It’s real dusty, isn’t it?” said she, by way of breaking a silence she found unbearable. “It’ll make my shoes look horrid.” “Walk over on the side more,” advised Jim laconically. “Then I’ll get in with all those weeds; they’re covered with dust and wet, besides,” objected Fanny.... “Say, Jim!” “Well?” “Wouldn’t it be nice if we had an auto, then I could step in, right in front of the house, and keep as clean as—” The young man laughed. “Wouldn’t you like an aëroplane better, Fan? I believe I would.” “You could keep it in the barn; couldn’t you, Jim?” “No,” derided Jim, “the barn isn’t what you’d call up-to-date. I require a hangar—or whatever you call ’em.” The girl smothered a sigh. “If we weren’t so poor—” she began. “Well?” “Oh—lots of things.... They say that Orr girl has heaps of money.” “Who says so?” demanded her brother roughly. “Why, everybody. Joyce Fulsom told me her father said so; and he ought to know. Do you suppose—?” “Do I suppose what?” Jim’s tone was almost savage. “What’s the matter with you, Jim?” Fanny’s sweet voice conveyed impatience, almost reproach. It was as if she had said to her brother, “You know how I must feel, and yet you are cross with me.” Jim glanced down at her, sudden relenting in his heart. “I was just thinking it’s pretty hard lines for both of us,” said he. “If we were rich and could come speeding into town in a snappy auto, our clothes in the latest style, I guess things would be different. There’s no use talking, Fan; there’s mighty little chance for our sort. And if there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s what folks call sympathy.” “So do I!” cried Fanny. “I simply can’t bear it to know that people are saying behind my back, ‘There’s _poor_ Fanny Dodge; I wonder—’ Then they squeeze your hand, and gaze at you and sigh. Even mother—I want you to tell mother I’m not—that it isn’t true—I can’t talk to her, Jim.” “I’ll put her wise,” said Jim gruffly. After a pause, during which both walked faster than before, he said hurriedly, as if the words broke loose: “Don’t you give that fellow another thought, Fan. He isn’t worth it!” The girl started like a blooded horse under the whip. She did not pretend to misunderstand.