"No friends!" He stared blankly. "Of course I realized that you could hardly go back home, but I took it for granted that there must be some place--somebody--" "There isn't." He sat down abruptly, bewildered with the complexities which beset an apparently simple situation. Jean herself began to entertain some misgiving. For the moment his opinion epitomized the world's. "Where do you mean to go?" he asked. "Across the state line first; then to New York." "New York!" "Yes; to find work. Why do you stare as if I'd said Timbuctoo?" "I'm from New York." "Are you?" She brightened wonderfully. "Then you can tell me where to find work. I'm willing to do anything at the start, but by and by I want to get into some good business. Women are succeeding in business on all sides nowadays. Why do you look so hopeless? Don't you think I can get on?" "How can I answer you! If there were only some woman to whom I might take you. I've a sister, but--" "But she wouldn't understand?" "No, she wouldn't understand. Neither do you understand," he went on anxiously. "To be a stranger in New York, homeless, friendless, without work, the shadow of that place over there dogging your steps; with you what you are--trustful, unsuspicious, open as sunlight--Oh, I daren't advise you. I don't dare." Jean was awed, but not downcast. "I'll risk it," she replied stoutly. Twice he opened his lips to speak, but rose instead and paced among the trees. Finally he confronted her. "Why not go back?" he asked. Jean widened her eyes upon him. "Go back! Go back to the refuge?" "Yes. Why not go back and see it through? No, no," he entreated, as her lip curled. "Don't think I'm trying to squirm out of my offer. That stands. It's you I'm considering. Remember that no matter how much you may make of yourself those people over there will have the power to take it from you. Should you marry--" "I shall never marry." "Should you marry--ah! you will--they can shame you and the man whose name you bear. Could you stand that? After all, isn't the other way better? Wouldn't a clean slate be worth its price?" She shook her head. "You don't realize what you ask. I can't go back. I can't. You don't know." "I suppose I don't," he admitted. "I'd rather run the risk--the risk of their finding me, the risk, whatever it is, of New York. As for friends--" she smiled upon him radiantly--"well, I'll have you." "Yes," he promised. "You'll have me." He accepted her decision, and at once made ready for his tramp across the hills. At parting he reminded her that to him she was still nameless. "I'm not sure myself," she laughed. "I'll need a new name in New York!" "But now?" "Well, then--Jack." "To offset the dimple, I suppose. Is it short for Jacqueline?" "No; just Jack."