Garvin studied her closely. He had seated himself as near to her as he could, with a mental curse for the tree-trunk that allowed no excuse for the support of his arm. The flush of exertion had left Ann's face, and Garvin saw now that she was very pale and heavy-eyed, and her lips compressed. Her hands also were tightly clasped. She was not frightened, or even shy; she was wretched. It was he who was flushed and doubtful. He had not lived well, how ill only he himself knew, but this was his first tampering with innocence. He put his hand on hers. "What's the matter, Ann?" She was silent. "What is it, dear?" he asked tenderly. "We're friends, aren't we? Are you sorry you came up here? What is it? Tell me?" Ann drew one of her hands away and, taking up a pine-needle, began pricking the bit of cape that lay between them. "No, I am not sorry," she said evenly. "The only comfort I've had to-day is thinking I was coming." She looked up at him, her eyes full of grief. "My father came home to-day." Garvin would have taken her in his arms, but for the fear that touched him. "But he doesn't know you are here?" "No. I didn't tell him--I couldn't tell him--anything.... Mr. Garvin, your people are fond of you--my people don't--love me." She had wrenched the thing out, despite the hurt. Garvin breathed more freely. What a child she was! "What do you mean, dear? Have they been unkind to you--to-day?" "They are kind to me, but they don't love me," Ann repeated, beginning to quiver. At one wrench and with tremendous effort, she had parted with reserve and the Penniman pride, and plunged on. "I don't know why they don't love me as they love each other. They have never loved me--even when I was little. My father went away an' left me because I reminded him that my being born killed my mother. An' now that he's back, I can see that he's never felt I was part of him. I understand better now--they're kind to me because they pity me. I don't want to be pitied--it's hateful to be pitied!... Your people love you, Mr. Garvin, so you can't understand--I reckon no one will understand." She had ended helplessly, not in tears, for she had wept herself into a decision that morning, and she was holding to that. Garvin's hand had grown lax on hers and his face gloomy. She had swept away the sensuous emotion to which he had yielded while waiting for her. He had given himself up to a contemplation of possibilities as an escape from harassment. His pursuit of Ann had been just that, from the very beginning, an escape from unendurable conditions. Her, "They're kind to me because they pity me ... it's hateful to be pitied!" had brought back with a rush the thoughts that had darkened his face while he rode with Baird that morning. "Your people love you--so you can't understand." His people love him! How well he understood, indeed!