Meanwhile Veronica, her morning work finished, had started out to oblige Mrs. Lowell. As she tripped around the house in search of the unfortunate boy, she suspected herself of hoping she should not find him. She summoned recollections of the Boston train and of various occasions since, when her sympathy for him had been roused, and by the time she espied him lying against a rock in the sunshine, her courage had risen sufficiently to address him. "Good-morning, Bertie," she said. He started, as was his habit when addressed, and turned his apathetic face toward her. "Do you like to play croquet?" The boy rose to a sitting position. "I--" he began, then some recollection came to him. "I never did play," he finished; then, his stolid eyes meeting the fresh young face: "You don't need to be kind to me," he added bluntly. Much disconcerted, Veronica flushed. "What do you mean?" she returned. "I like to play croquet. I'll teach you." "No," said the boy. "Uncle Nick said--said this morning that--that when people were--were kind to me, it was because they--they pitied me because I was a fool." The boy swallowed. "You can--go away, please." Veronica's round eyes snapped with indignation. "Your Uncle Nick's the fool to say such a thing," she returned, her cheeks growing very red. "Don't you believe him. You and I are the youngest people here. Don't you think we ought to play together a little?" "No. You pity me. Go away, please." "Now, Bertie, I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that." He averted his head and was silent, and Veronica stood there, uncertainly. "I wonder if you are stronger than I am," she said at last. "I don't know." "The grass is too long on the croquet ground. I want to mow it. The lawnmower is pretty heavy. Do you think you could help me?" The boy lay still for a minute more without meeting her eyes again. Then he pulled himself up slowly and walked beside her back to the shed. "Mr. Barrison makes fun of our croquet ground because it is rough. I want him to see an improvement when he comes again." Veronica led the way to where the mower stood, and the boy took hold of it and drew it after him back to the desired spot. "I'll pull up all the wickets," said the girl eagerly, and, as she did so, she cast a side-glance at her companion, waiting, and she thought his face the most hopeless and sad she had ever looked upon. She could feel her own eyes sting. "None of that, none of that," she told herself. "Now, don't you get too tired," she said. "Let me take my turn." She followed him as he went across the ground once and back again. She chattered of the weather, the sea, the song sparrows, and he answered never a word, just pushed the clicking little machine until the perspiration stood out on his forehead. "Now, you must let me take it," said Veronica. "I didn't mean that I couldn't do any of it. I just felt it would be tiresome to do it all."