e did not
tell him this time that she would love, love, love him always; but she
beamed upon him gratefully and she urged him to come soon again, and
often.

David bowed himself off, with many a backward wave of the hand, and
many a promise to come again. Not until he had quite reached the bottom
of the hill did he remember that the man, "Jack," had said almost
nothing at the last. As David recollected him, indeed, he had last been
seen standing beside one of the veranda posts, with gloomy eyes fixed
on the towers of Sunnycrest that showed red-gold above the tree-tops in
the last rays of the setting sun.

It was a bad half-hour that David spent at the Holly farmhouse in
explanation of his torn blouse and bruised face. Farmer Holly did not
approve of fights, and he said so, very sternly indeed. Even Mrs.
Holly, who was usually so kind to him, let David understand that he was
in deep disgrace, though she was very tender to his wounds.

David did venture to ask her, however, before he went upstairs to bed:--

"Mrs. Holly, who are those people--Jack and Jill--that were so good to
me this afternoon?"

"They are John Gurnsey and his sister, Julia; but the whole town knows
them by the names they long ago gave themselves, 'Jack' and 'Jill.'"

"And do they live all alone in the little house?"

"Yes, except for the Widow Glaspell, who comes in several times a week,
I believe, to cook and wash and sweep. They aren't very happy, I'm
afraid, David, and I'm glad you could rescue the little girl's kitten
for her--but you mustn't fight. No good can come of fighting!"

"I got the cat--by fighting."

"Yes, yes, I know; but--" She did not finish her sentence, and David
was only waiting for a pause to ask another question.

"Why aren't they happy, Mrs. Holly?"

"Tut, tut, David, it's a long story, and you wouldn't understand it if
I told it. It's only that they're all alone in the world, and Jack
Gurnsey isn't well. He must be thirty years old now. He had bright
hopes not so long ago studying law, or something of the sort, in the
city. Then his father died, and his mother, and he lost his health.
Something ails his lungs, and the doctors sent him here to be out of
doors. He even sleeps out of doors, they say. Anyway, he's here, and
he's making a home for his sister; but, of course, with his hopes and
ambitions--But there, David, you don't understand, of course!"

"Oh, yes, I do," breathed David, his eyes pensively turned tow