“Do not go near my Lucy! Do not touch her!” cried the unhappy mother, distractedly. “This is all your work, sir--all your work!” John Dinsmore drew back in much distress. Never by word, act or deed, had he given the girl encouragement to bestow her affections upon himself. He was touched deeply. He remembered his own hopeless love for Queenie Trevalyn, and could sympathize from the very bottom of his heart with any human being who loved in vain. His eyes filled with tears; he who had been drawn on by dimpling smiles and coquettish glances until his whole heart had been drawn from his bosom, only to be ruthlessly cast aside when he acknowledged, while he pleaded for the heart of the girl he loved, that he had not wealth to offer her. “You will at least allow me to carry her into the other room and place her on the settee for you?” he asked, gently, noting that the slender form, light as the burden was, would certainly be beyond the strength of the mother’s arms. Again she waved him away. “Living or dead, you shall not lay a finger on my child,” she said, bitterly, adding, with a burst of grief: “I am sorry, sorry that you ever darkened the farmhouse door; but I never dreamed you would lure my girl’s heart from her, and then coolly inform us that you were going away.” He made the irate mother no answer; indeed, of what use would it be to defend his actions? Nothing that he would say would mend matters. He must go at once. It was very sad; very pitiful; but all the same he must go. He said good-by to Mrs. Caldwell, and turned sorrowfully away, when she turned stolidly in another direction, refusing to take any notice of him. It was better that he should go ere Lucy returned to consciousness. An hour later he was speeding on toward New York, leaving the farm and its occupants far behind him, to see them never again. He meant to see Jess at once, and have the parting over with her without unnecessary delay, and after that--well, it mattered little enough to him what became of him. CHAPTER XXXVII. A GREAT SURPRISE. “Like some lone bird, without a mate, My weary heart is desolate; I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile, one welcoming face; And e’en in crowds, I’m still alone, Because--I cannot love--but one.” John Dinsmore experienced quite a change of climate when he reached New York from that which he had just left behind him in the sunny South. A violent snowstorm was raging, and it was bitter cold. Busy as the streets of the great metropolis always were there seemed to be more than the usual throng surging to and fro, and then John Dinsmore remembered what he came very near forgetting, that it was Thanksgiving Eve.