"I was on the porch," said Don, "and I came through the window there to get a book. They were in the hall." "You listened!" Don flushed. "I--I wanted to," he said sullenly. "And I did." "Ah, yes," said Kenny, wiping his hair back and wondering vaguely why it felt so wet, "you wanted to and you did." "I wanted to," said Don fiercely, "because I knew Brian loved her. And I knew my sister wasn't happy. She's looked sad and tired and frightened a lot of times, Joan has, and she's cried a lot--" "Yes," said Kenny, "she has." Don's challenging eyes swept with stormy suspicion over Kenny's face. "Mr. O'Neill," he flung out, "don't you blame her. Don't you do it. She was a kid, an awful kid when you came here first, and lonesome. She wanted to be flattered and loved. All girls do. She wasn't happy. She wanted to play and you gave her a chance. You're famous and you've been everywhere and you're a good looker," he gulped courageously, "and maybe you turned her head. I--don't know. I think she loves you an awful lot anyway. But not--not that way. You could have been her father--" "Yes," said Kenny wincing. "She's younger than Brian." Where had he read that youth was cruel? "Yes, I could have been her father." "I don't mean you're old," stammered Don, flushing. "I mean--Oh, Mr. O'Neill--" and now Don slipped back into childhood for a second and sobbed aloud--"I--I don't know what I mean. You just--just mustn't blame her. She's my sister. She even patched my clothes." "I'm not blaming her, Don. God knows I'm not. I'm just wonderin'." "Joan's going to marry you just the same. She said so. Mr. O'Neill, you've got to do something. You--you've got to!" He clenched his hands and bolted for the door. "Yes," said Kenny, frowning, "I--I've got to do something. I can't--think--what. Where's Joan?" "I think she's gone to the cabin. She often went there when Uncle made her cry. Mr. O'Neill," Don clenched one hand and struck it fiercely against the palm of the other, "you've been good to me. I--I'm awful sorry--" He fled with a sob and Kenny put his hand to his throat to still a painful throbbing. There was a clanking in his ears. Or was it in his memory? Ah, yes, Adam had said that life was a link in a chain that clanks, and he couldn't escape. Well, he hadn't. Kenny sat down, conscious of a tired irresolution in his head and a numbness. Nothing seemed clearly defined, save somewhere within him a monumental sharpness as of pain. Joan's happiness he remembered must be the religion of his love.