ad and tired and
frightened a lot of times, Joan has, and she's cried a lot--"

"Yes," said Kenny, "she has."

Don's challenging eyes swept with stormy suspicion over Kenny's face.

"Mr. O'Neill," he flung out, "don't you blame her. Don't you do it.
She was a kid, an awful kid when you came here first, and lonesome.
She wanted to be flattered and loved. All girls do. She wasn't happy.
She wanted to play and you gave her a chance. You're famous and you've
been everywhere and you're a good looker," he gulped courageously, "and
maybe you turned her head. I--don't know. I think she loves you an
awful lot anyway. But not--not that way. You could have been her
father--"

"Yes," said Kenny wincing. "She's younger than Brian." Where had he
read that youth was cruel? "Yes, I could have been her father."

"I don't mean you're old," stammered Don, flushing. "I mean--Oh, Mr.
O'Neill--" and now Don slipped back into childhood for a second and
sobbed aloud--"I--I don't know what I mean. You just--just mustn't
blame her. She's my sister. She even patched my clothes."

"I'm not blaming her, Don. God knows I'm not. I'm just wonderin'."

"Joan's going to marry you just the same. She said so. Mr. O'Neill,
you've got to do something. You--you've got to!" He clenched his
hands and bolted for the door.

"Yes," said Kenny, frowning, "I--I've got to do something. I
can't--think--what. Where's Joan?"

"I think she's gone to the cabin. She often went there when Uncle made
her cry. Mr. O'Neill," Don clenched one hand and struck it fiercely
against the palm of the other, "you've been good to me. I--I'm awful
sorry--"

He fled with a sob and Kenny put his hand to his throat to still a
painful throbbing.

There was a clanking in his ears. Or was it in his memory? Ah, yes,
Adam had said that life was a link in a chain that clanks, and he
couldn't escape. Well, he hadn't.

Kenny sat down, conscious of a tired irresolution in his head and a
numbness. Nothing seemed clearly defined, save somewhere within him a
monumental sharpness as of pain. Joan's happiness he remembered must
be the religion of his love.

After that things blurred--curiously. Superstition, ordinarily
within him but an artificial twist of fancy, reared a mocking head and
reminded him of omens. Sailing over the river long ago he had thought
of Hy Brazil, the Isle of Delight that receded always when you
followed. Receded! It was very