Every year saw the resources of the Ganos lessening, the problem of life more difficult to solve. "You see," Val would say, radiant, "it just shows the _need_ for me to study singing and make money." "You? Ridiculous and most improper! No woman of your family has ever dreamed of taking money for anything she has done." The following summer--or "on June 18," as he would have said, taking care to add the year, and even the hour--John Gano received a shock. A kindly letter had come to him from his old flame, Mrs. Otway, to say that, although he seemed to have forgotten her, still, for old friendship's sake, and out of affection for Val, she felt it a neighborly duty to tell him in confidence that his eldest daughter was making preparations to run away and be a chorus-girl in New York. Mrs. Otway's own daughter had been so oppressed by the enormity of the secret, that she had told her mother. Julia had broken open her bank and given all her savings to "the cause." It was understood, too, that Val had other sources of revenue not revealed. However, merely to deprive her of the money might not be sufficient to head her off, as she had been heard to say she was going to New York, if she had to walk there. John Gano did not break the awful news to his mother. He betrayed nothing unusual in his aspect, as he said to his daughter: "It's a glorious afternoon! Shall we go for a walk?" Val was not as enthusiastic as she had been wont to be, but after the fraction of a moment's preoccupied hesitation she answered, brightly: "I should love it!" "Come, then." He caught up his blackthorn stick, and they set off. Val chatted about the school Commencement, about the new archery club, and how "horrid much" the bows and arrows cost. "I dare say I could make you a set," said her father. "I always made my own cross-bows as a boy." "I know. And when you were only eight you cut and carved and glued together a perfect model of a stage-coach. You are wonderful about making things; but these big bows have to be of orange-wood, tough and limber, you know." "Hickory would do." "No; they _have_ to be all alike. That's what parents never realize. Gran'ma was just so about my gymnasium dress. But Jerry Otway's going to bring a piece of orange-wood back. He traded with another boy at the Military Institute, swopped an old racket for it. He's going to see if he can't do a home-made bow, so's you can't tell the difference, varnish and all." "When does Jerry get back?" "A week from to-morrow, in time for Julie's birthday-party." They had gone a mile or so along the old turnpike road. The sun was still very hot and the dust ankle-deep. Mr. Gano stopped meditatively, and struck his blackthorn into the gray "MacAdam" powder. "Yet, in spite of all this to occupy and amuse you, you want to turn your back on it all." "I--what?" "I understand you are thinking of running away." Val gave a little gasp, and prayed the dusty road might gape and swallow her. "I--I--"