And he was gone. Jane stood looking after the ancient phaeton with an expression half of amusement, half of discomfiture. "I might have known," reflected she, "that popsy would see through it all." When she reappeared in the front doorway Victor Dorn was at the edge of the veranda, ready to depart. As soon as he saw her he said gravely: "I must be off, Miss Hastings. Thank you for the very interesting dinner." He extended his hand. "Good day." She put her hands behind her back, and stood smiling gently at him. "You mustn't go--not just yet. I'm about to show you the trees and the grass, the bees, the chickens and the cows. Also, I've something important to say to you." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I must go." She stiffened slightly; her smile changed from friendly to cold. "Oh--pardon me," she said. "Good-by." He bowed, and was on the walk, and running rapidly toward the entrance gates. "Mr. Dorn!" she called. He turned. She was afraid to risk asking him to come back for a moment. He might refuse. Standing there, looking so resolute, so completely master of himself, so devoid of all suggestion of need for any one or anything, he seemed just the man to turn on his heel and depart. She descended to the walk and went to him. She said: "Why are you acting so peculiarly? Why did you come?" "Because I understood that your father wished to propose some changes in the way of better hours and better wages for the men," replied he. "I find that the purpose was--not that." "What was it?" "I do not care to go into that." He was about to go on--on out of her life forever, she felt. "Wait," she cried. "The men will get better hours and wages. You don't understand father's ways. He was really discussing that very thing--in his own mind. You'll see. He has a great admiration for you. You can do a lot with him. You owe it to the men to make use of his liking." He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he said: "I'll have to be at least partly frank with you. In all his life no one has ever gotten anything out of your father. He uses men. They do not use him." "Believe me, that is unjust," cried Jane. "I'll tell you another thing that was on his mind. He wants to--to make reparation for--that accident to your father. He wants to pay your mother and you the money the road didn't pay you when it ought." Dorn's candid face showed how much he was impressed. This beautiful, earnest girl, sweet and frank, seemed herself to be another view of Martin Hastings' character--one more in accord with her strong belief in the essential goodness of human nature.