“One thing: it's decided us to be off for Fortress Monroe at last. We shall go by the boat to-morrow, if my aunt's better.” “To-morrow?” said Dan. “What's to become of me when you're gone?” “Oh, we shall not take the whole population with us,” suggested Miss Anderson. “I wish you would take me. I told Mrs. Brinkley I would come while she was there, but I'm afraid I can't get off. Lafflin is developing into all sorts of strange propositions.” “I think you'd better look out for that man,” said Miss Anderson. “Oh, I do nothing without consulting my father. But I shall miss you.” “Thank you,” said the girl gravely. “I don't mean in a business capacity only.” They both laughed, and Dan looked about the room, which he found was a private hotel parlour, softened to a more domestic effect by the signs of its prolonged occupation by two refined women. On a table stood a leather photograph envelope with three cabinet pictures in it. Along the top lay a spray of withered forceythia. Dan's wandering eyes rested on it. Miss Anderson went and softly closed the door opening into the next room. “I was afraid our talking might disturb my aunt,” she said, and on her way back to him she picked up the photograph case and brought it to the light. “These are my father and mother. We live at Yonkers; but I'm with my aunt a good deal of the time in town--even when I'm at home.” She laughed at her own contradictory statement, and put the case back without explaining the third figure--a figure in uniform. Dan conjectured a military brother, or from her indifference perhaps a militia brother, and then forgot about him. But the partial Yonkers residence accounted for traits of unconventionality in Miss Anderson which he had not been able to reconcile with the notion of an exclusively New York breeding. He felt the relief, the sympathy, the certainty of intelligence which every person whose life has been partly spent in the country feels at finding that a suspected cockney has also had the outlook into nature and simplicity. On the Yonkers basis they became more intimate, more personal, and Dan told her about Ponkwasset Falls and his mother and sisters; he told her about his father, and she said she should like to see his father; she thought he must be like her father. All at once, and for no reason that he could think of afterward, except, perhaps, the desire to see the case with her eyes, he began to tell her of his affair with Alice, and how and why it was broken off; he told the whole truth in regard to that, and did not spare himself. She listened without once speaking, but without apparent surprise at the confidence, though she may have felt surprised. At times she looked as if her thoughts were away from what he was saying. He ended with, “I'm sure I don't know why I've told you all this. But I wanted you to know about me. The worst.”