“Well,” he answered speculatively, “I mightn't have understood as well if it hadn't been for Ann. By jings! I used to lie awake at night sometimes thinking `supposing it bad been Ann and me!' I'd sort of work it out as it might have happened in New York--at the office of the Sunday Earth. Supposing some fellow that'd had a grouch against me had managed it so that Galton thought I'd been getting away with money that didn't belong to me--fixing up my expense account, or worse. And Galton wouldn't listen to what I said, and fired me; and I couldn't get a job anywhere else because I was down and out for good. And nobody would listen. And I was killed without clearing myself. And Little Ann was left to stand it--Little Ann! Old Hutchinson wouldn't listen, I know that. And it would be all shut up burning in her big little heart--burning. And T. T. dead, and not a word to say for himself. Jehoshaphat!”--taking out his handkerchief and touching his forehead--“it used to make the cold sweat start out on me. It's doing it now. Ann and me might have been Jem and you. That's why I understood.” He put out his hand and caught hers and frankly squeezed it--squeezed it hard; and the unconventional clutch was a wonderful thing to her. “It's all right now, ain't it?” he said. “We've got it straightened out. You'll not be afraid to come back here if your mother wants you to.” He stopped for a moment and then went on with something of hesitation: “We don't want to talk about your mother. We can't. But I understand her, too. Folks are different from each other in their ways. She's different from you. I'll--I'll straighten it out with her if you like.” “Nothing will need straightening out after I tell her that you are going to marry Little Ann Hutchinson,” said Joan, with a half-smile. “And that you were engaged to her before you saw me.” “Well, that does sort of finish things up, doesn't it?” said T. Tembarom. He looked at her so speculatively for a moment after this that she wondered whether he had something more to say. He had. “There's something I want to ask you,” he ventured. “Ask anything.” “Do you know any one--just any one--who has a photo--just any old photo--of Jem Temple Barholm?” She was rather puzzled. “Yes. I know a woman who has worn one for nearly eight years. Do you want to see it?” “I'd give a good deal to,” was his answer. She took a flat locket from her dress and handed it to him. “Women don't wear lockets in these days.” He could barely hear her voice because it was so low. “But I've never taken it off. I want him near my heart. It's Jem!” He held it on the palm of his hand and stood under the light, studying it as if he wanted to be sure he wouldn't forget it. “It's--sorter like that picture of Miles Hugo, ain't it?” he suggested. “Yes. People always said so. That was why you found me in the picture-gallery the first time we met.”