hills in the west; the
sky was pale blue; the spring flowers whitened the meadow. Twilight
began to deepen; the evening star twinkled out of the sky; the hush of
the gloaming hour stole over the land.

"Four weeks home--and nothing done. So little time left!" he muttered.

Two weeks of that period he had been unable to leave his bed. The rest
of the time he had dragged himself around, trying to live up to his
resolve, to get at the meaning of the present, to turn his sister
Lorna from the path of dalliance. And he had failed in all.

His sister presented the problem that most distressed Lane. She had
her good qualities, and through them could be reached. But she was
thoughtless, vacillating, and wilful. She had made him promises only
to break them. Lane had caught her in falsehoods. And upon being
called to account she had told him that if he didn't like it he could
"lump" it. Of late she had grown away from what affection she had
shown at first. She could not bear interference with her pleasures,
and seemed uncontrollable. Lane felt baffled. This thing was a
Juggernaut impossible to stop.

Lane had scraped acquaintance with Harry Hale, one of Lorna's
admirers, a boy of eighteen, who lived with his widowed mother on the
edge of the town. He appeared to be an industrious, intelligent, quiet
fellow, not much given to the prevailing habits of the young people.
In his humble worship of Lorna he was like a dog. Lorna went to the
motion pictures with him occasionally, when she had no other
opportunity for excitement. Lane gathered that Lorna really liked this
boy, and when with him seemed more natural, more what a
fifteen-year-old girl used to be. And somehow it was upon this boy
that Lane placed a forlorn hope.

No more automobiles honked in front of the home to call Lorna out. She
met her friends away from the house, and returning at night she walked
the last few blocks. It was this fact that awoke Lane's serious
suspicions.

Another problem lay upon Lane's heart; if not so distressing as
Lorna's, still one that added to his sorrow and his perplexity. He had
gone once to call on Mel Iden. Mel Iden was all soul. Whatever had
been the facts of her downfall--and reflection on that hurt Lane so
strangely he could not bear it--it had not been on her part a matter
of sex. She was far above wantonness.

Through long hours in the dark of night, when Lane's pain kept him
sleepless, he had pondered over the mystery of Mel I