Foolish and inane in amatory “attentions” to young ladies, George was no fool. He had a fund of knowledge gained from the observation of current facts, and could talk about the newsboys’ clubs, or the condition of the docks, or the latest motor-cars and ballooning, or the practical reasons why motives for reform didn’t reform; and the talk was usually semi-interesting, and sometimes more—he had the personal intimacy with his topics which gives them life. Dosia began to find him, if not exciting, at least not tiring; restful, indeed. She began genuinely to like him; he took her thoughts away from herself, while obviously always thinking of her. She did not even actively dislike those moments when his pale blue eyes became suffused with admiration or a warmer feeling, but was, instead, somewhat gratefully touched by it. Not only her starved vanity but her starved self-respect cried out for food, and he alone gave it to her. This Sunday afternoon Dosia—modish and natty in her short walking-skirt and little jacket of shepherd’s check, and a clumpy, black-velveted, pink-rosed straw hat—walked companionably beside the square-set figure of George up the long slope of the semi-suburban road. Dosia had preferred to walk instead of driving. There was a strong breeze, although the sun was warm; and the summerish wayside trees and grasses had inspired him with the recollection of a country boy’s calendar—a pleasing, homely monologue. He was, however, never too occupied with his theme to stoop over and throw a stone out of her path, or to hold her little checked umbrella so that the sun should not shine in her eyes, or to offer her his hand with old-fashioned gallantry if there was any hint of an obstacle to surmount. The way was long, yet not too long. They stopped, however, when they reached the summit, to rest for a while leaning against the top bar of the rail fence on the side of the slope below the carriage drive, looking down into the green meadows below; beyond, afar off, there was the white mist-hazed glimpse of a river with toy houses crowded thickly into the middle distance. As they stood there, looking into the distance for some minutes, Dosia with thoughts far, far from the scene, George Sutton’s voice suddenly broke the silence: “I had a letter from Lawson Barr yesterday.” Dosia’s heart gave a leap that choked her. It was the first time that anybody had spoken his name since he left. She had prayed for him every night—how she had prayed! as for one gone forever from any other reach than that of the spirit. At this heart-leap... fear was in it—fear of any news she might hear of him; fear of the slighting tone of the person who told it, which she would be powerless to resent; fear of awakening in herself the echo of that struggle of the past. “He’s at the mines, isn’t he?” she questioned, in that tone which she had always striven to make coolly natural when she spoke of him.