But at the moment Lou Lacey seemed in no momentary need of sympathetic understanding. She was pursuing a hapless frog with well-directed shots of small pebbles, and there was an impish grin upon her face. "How old are you?" he asked suddenly. Lou shrugged. "I don't know. About seventeen or eighteen, I reckon; at least, they told me six years ago that I was twelve, an' I've kept track ever since. When I was sixteen, though, and it was time for me to be got a place somewhere, the matron put me back a couple of years; we were gettin' more babies from the poor-farm than usual, an' I was kinder handy with them. She had to let me go now because one of the visitin' deaconesses let out that she'd seen me there sixteen years ago herself, an' I was toddlin' round then. Oh, I missed him!" The frog, with a triumphant _plop_, had disappeared beneath a flat, submerged stone, and Lou turned to note her companion's pain-drawn face. "I'm goin' to fix that bandage on your head again," she declared as she sprang to her feet. "Is your back hurtin' you very much?" "Not very." He forced a smile, but his face was grave, for, despite his suffering, the problem which this accidental meeting had forced upon him filled his thoughts. What was he to do with this girl? In spite of the statement that she had "kept track" of her last few years he could not credit the fact that she was approximately eighteen; fourteen would be nearer the guess he would have made, and it was unthinkable that a child like that should wander about the country alone. He could not bear the thought of betraying her innocent confidences by handing her over to the nearest authorities; it would mean her being held as a vagrant and possibly sent to the county poor-farm. Perhaps the people with whom she had been placed were not so bad, after all; if he took her back and reasoned with them, insisted upon their keeping to their bargain, and giving her lighter tasks to perform. Then he remembered his own appearance, and smiled ruefully. Instead of listening they would in all probability set the dog on him. Perhaps he could persuade her to return of her own accord. "The people you were working for; their name was 'Hess'?" he asked. She nodded as she finished fastening the cool compress about his forehead. "Henry Hess an' his wife, Freida, an'--an' Max." Something in the quality of her tone more than her hesitation made him demand sharply: "Who is Max?" "Their son." Her voice was very low, but for the first time it trembled slightly. "You don't like him, do you?" He waited a moment, and then added abruptly: "Why not?" "Because he's a--a beast! I don't want to talk about him! I don't want even to remember that such _things_ as he is can be let live!" James Botts turned and looked at her and then away, for the childish figure had been drawn up tensely with a sort of instinctive dignity which sat not ill upon it, and from her dark eyes insulted womanhood had blazed.