A boy of Joe’s own age came into the room with rather a sullen air; on the defensive. Joe perceived that it was that same white-faced boy. . . . God! _that_ kid! All the ground was cut from under his feet. For an instant he thought of flight. But only for an instant. It steadied him to perceive that the kid was a lot worse upset by the meeting than he was. The kid’s eyes were fixed and crazy, like. He was looking at Joe as if he saw a headless ghost rising out of the grave. It almost made Joe laugh. What the hell! he said to himself; the kid wouldn’t dare to name anything to the women. And anyhow, he didn’t see nothing but what his own dirty mind imagined. . . . He’s no better than me himself. I can handle him, too. “This is my nephew, Wilfred Pell,” said Miss Gittings, pleasantly. “Please to meet yeh,” said Joe affably. The frantic look in the kid’s eyes warned Joe not to put out his hand. He _might_ explode. * * * * * Wilfred had been down to Staten Island. The Aunts approved of these Sunday excursions. For once they were of a mind with Wilfred about something. To-day he had discovered a lovely spot called Willow Brook, which in its wild beauty and solitude might have been a thousand miles from New York, instead of actually within the city limits. It had been a good day. Upon entering the house, his heart sank, recognizing from the tones of his Aunt’s voice that there were strangers in the drawing-room. One could not get past the open door without being seen. And he did want to get to his own room to think. He debated sneaking out again, and entering by the basement, but his Aunt called him in her company voice. The second time she called, he was obliged to enter the room. He was astonished to see a boy of his own age, sitting with his back to the windows. He examined him with eager curiosity. When the boy arose and came towards him, Wilfred’s heart failed him. That boy of the East Side!—cleaner now, and better dressed, but the same boy! Wilfred turned sick inside. This was a hallucination, of course; that wicked, bold, long-nosed face had haunted him, these past weeks. This was the Tempter; the destroyer of his peace! Well, it was all over then; this was the end; he was done for! Then his Aunt May introduced them to each other in her silly-sounding voice, and Wilfred realized that Joe was no apparition. He looked at him in helpless confusion. By what trick of fate had he come to be sitting in the drawing-room of the prim Aunts as if he belonged there? The explanation when it came was natural enough: “This is the boy who brought me home when I sprained my ankle on Thursday night.”