“Yes, yes, perhaps,” she replied hastily, growing very red and embarrassed. Always, John noticed, when the conversation showed signs of becoming personal, she grew alarmed, and instantly she was on her guard. He had observed this so many times that he resolved to question his mother more in detail about her. Who was Dorothy Snyder, and what was it she feared? Perhaps they were unwittingly harboring a criminal in their home. As soon as he found an opportunity, he put the question to Mrs. Hadley. “Mother,” he said, when they were alone that evening, “what do you make of Dorothy?” “What do you mean, John?” asked Mrs. Hadley, looking up from her sewing. “You know what I mean--who she is, and where does she come from?” “She comes from a little town in New York state, and her people are all dead.” “But what happened that made her so ill, and so penniless? And yet she said she had never worked before.” Mrs. Hadley shook her head; she could not answer that question. “I know nothing, except what she had volunteered to tell me. I never ask her about herself.” “But how did you find her? You never told me the whole story.” “She was sitting in a pavilion, her face buried in her hands, and sobbing very quietly. I went up and asked her if I could help her.” “And she accepted?” “No, not right away. She said she was very ill, and had lost her money, and would be grateful if I could take her in for a night. Naturally I took her home. She gave her name as Dorothy Snyder, of Edgetown, New York.” “As you know, I took care of her till she got better. She never talked much, except to tell me how grateful she was for my kindness. Once she told me that she had been through an awful experience, and begged me not to ask her any questions. Of course I promised.” “Don’t you suppose she will ever tell us about herself?” “Yes, but I think she is trying to shield somebody or hide something, and will not tell till everything is cleared up.” “Do you--did you ever think she had done anything wrong herself?” John asked the question fearfully, as if he dreaded lest the answer might be in the affirmative. “No,” replied his mother, decidedly. “I am sure of the girl’s innocence. I don’t know how or why, but I am.” The young man breathed a sigh of relief, and yet he was not entirely satisfied. He longed to go to the bottom of the matter, to tear aside the veil, as it were, from Dorothy’s obscurity, and have her for a friend as he might have any other normal girl. He was glad, however, that she never avoided him now, that since he had told her about Marjorie, she raised no barrier to their continuous companionship during his visits to his mother. Accordingly, when he asked her to go for a walk with him on Sunday afternoon, she willingly agreed. She seemed preoccupied at first, and they walked along in silence for a quarter of an hour. It was Dorothy who spoke first, surprising him by her remark.