There was a pause. The girl was standing in the doorway. Her dog was basking in the sunshine not a yard away. She looked at the cripple with thoughtful eyes. "I live alone, too," she said. "That is--Cæsar and I." That successfully aroused Durant's curiosity. "You!" he said incredulously. She put up her hand with a quick movement and pushed the short curls back from her forehead. "I am used to it," she said, with an odd womanly dignity. "I have been practically alone all my life." Durant looked at her closely. She spoke in a very low voice, but there were rich notes in it that caught his attention. "Isn't that very unusual for a girl of your age?" he said. She smiled again without answering. A blue sunbonnet dangled on her arm. In the silence that followed she put it on. The great dog arose at the action, stretched himself, and went to her side. She laid her hand on his head. "We play hide-and-seek, Cæsar and I," she said, "among the dunes." Durant took his crutches and stumbled with difficulty to his feet. The lower part of his body was terribly crippled and weak. Only the broad shoulders of the man testified to the splendid strength that had once been his, and could never be his again as long as he lived. He saw the girl turn her head aside as he moved. The sunbonnet completely hid her face. A sharp spasm of pain set his own like a stone mask. Suddenly she looked round. "Will you--will you come and see me some day?" she asked him shyly. Her tone was rather of request than invitation, and Durant was curiously touched. He had a feeling that she awaited his reply with eagerness. He smiled for the first time. "With pleasure," he said courteously, "if the path is easy and the distance not too great for my powers." "It is quite close," she said readily, "hardly a stone's throw from here--a little wooden cottage--the first you come to." "And you live quite alone?" Durant said. "I like it best," she assured him. "Will you tell me your name?" he asked. "My name is Molly," she answered quietly. "Nothing else?" said Durant with a puzzled frown. "Nothing else, sir," she said, with her air of womanly dignity. He made no outward comment, but inwardly he wondered. Was this odd little, dark-haired creature some nameless waif of the sea brought up on the charity of the fisher-folk, he asked himself. She stood aside for him to pass, drawing Cæsar out of his way. He stopped a moment to pat the dog's head. And so standing, leaning upon his crutches, he suddenly and keenly looked into the olive-tinted face that the sunbonnet shadowed. "Sorry for me, eh?" he said, and he uttered a laugh that was short and very bitter. She bent down over the dog. "Yes, I am sorry," she said, almost under her breath. Bending lower, she picked up something that lay on the ground between them. "You dropped this," she said.