He searched her eyes for the truth. Nanny, not daring to trust herself, turned away her head with an unsteady little laugh. "Why?" "Because," the puzzled boy explained, "you have been so quiet and so nice and kind to me." The laughable innocence of him was all that saved Nanny that time. She thought of going away. But she lacked the courage. The thought of going made the pain worse and there was no place in all the world to which she cared to go. Then a brilliant idea came to her. It might after all, she told herself, be purely imaginary,--this strange torture that she thought was love. It might after all be only a foolish fancy born of her quiet isolated life in the dreamy old town. She would fill the house with people, with men and women and music. So for a time the Ainslees were very gay. House party followed house party and there were always guests. Secure with the security of numbers Nanny invited Cynthia's son. Then she stood back and watched him draw both men and women about him. He was utterly at ease with the men but quiet and reserved with the girls. Instinctively he sorted out the comfortable, less brilliant ones and chatted with them, all unconscious of the light in the eyes of the others. Nanny watched him and as she watched there was born in her heart a new fear and torture. She realized that some day love would come to Cynthia's son and feared that she would have to stand by unseen and forgotten. So then she began to distrust those of her feminine guests who smiled at him and chatted with him. And as soon as she decently could she sent all her company packing. When they were gone she knew beyond any possibility of doubt that she loved him and would always love him and that the vengeance that her father had predicted had overtaken her. The very next time Cynthia's son came he found the house quiet and Nanny alone. "Are they all gone?" he asked. "Yes," she told him. "When is your next crowd coming?" he wondered. "There aren't going to be any more crowds," Nanny informed him. "That's nice. It's pleasanter this way." Nanny's poor heart longed to ask why but it dared not. So then she drifted and didn't care. Though she prayed a little miserably at times for peace and a home shore. They seemed to meet by accident on the sunny summer roads and whenever they did they strolled on aimlessly but contented. Because she was now so quiet and kind he told her things that he had never told to any one else. She marvelled at the simple heart of him, its freedom from self-consciousness. She had not dreamed that there was anywhere in the world a grown-up man like that.