"I am trying," she responded, but even while she was speaking her face and tone showed the futility of her effort. "Poor Martin!" she went on. "Do you know, somehow, I feel more for him than for Kensy. Kensy is rougher, harder, less sensitive, less imaginative. Martin has always been my baby of the two. He was sick once several years ago, and I waited on him, nursed him, and petted him nearly to death. This is terrible on him. He may be awake now in that cold, damp cave, and with those ghastly thoughts to keep him company. Oh, life is a tragedy, Mr. Brown! As a child, I thought it was an endless dream of beauty and joy, and I have waked to this--to this!" He tried again to cheer her with his stories, but her sweet face held shadows which he could not banish. Now and then she would smile faintly, but he saw that she was forcing herself to do so. Something he said about his school-days evoked a sudden question for which he was not prepared. "You speak of your home, but you have not yet told me where it was," she said. He looked down at the pool of water which had dripped from his clothing, and hesitated. His pause brought a quick remark from her. "Pardon me, I have no right to ask," she sighed. "But you _have_ the right," he floundered, conscious of the flush on his face and the agitation in his manner. "It is only that--that I have put it behind me forever. It is mine no longer, you see." "Never mind. I'm sorry I touched upon it." She sighed again and looked through the open door out into the raging wind and rain. "I'm always prying into your personal affairs, as when I spoke of the photograph of the pretty little girl in your room." "Oh, I'm glad you noticed the picture of Ruth," he said, still embarrassed, "for I love her very dearly." "You miss her, I know you do," Mary said, softly. "The picture looks as if you had carried it in your pocket for a long time." "I used to do that," he confessed, "but I found that it kept the past too close to me. Now I see it only just before going to bed." Suddenly Mary leaned toward him; a portion of her wonderful hair fell against her cheek; her eyes gleamed as if with coming tears. "Mr. Brown," she said, "you are so good and kind and noble that I am going to pray for one thing in particular to happen to you. God may have wise reasons for withholding it from you just at present, but I am going to pray that He will some day give you back your child." "_My_ child!" He groped for her meaning. "She is not my own child. She is only my niece." "Oh, then you are not married!" "No, and I never have been. In fact, I never can be. My conduct in the past has made that impossible. Other men may marry and have children, but I am not like them."