t way."

"I'll hit on some means," he boasted. "You belong to me."

"And I've found it out too late," she said, "and I don't believe I could
have found it out before. Think of that, George, when it seems too hard.
I had to be caught by my own rotten temper before I'd let you wake me
up."

She drew a little away, and when he started forward motioned him back.
Her face flooded with colour, but she met his eyes bravely.

"That was something. I will never forget that, either, but it doesn't
make me feel--unclean, as I did that day at Oakmont and afterward. I
don't want to forget it ever. Now you understand."

She ran swiftly to the door and opened it. He followed her and saw Betty
at the farther end of the room talking to Mr. Planter.

"Why do you do that?" he asked, desperately.

"I want to tell you why I'll never forget," she answered in a half
whisper. "Because I love you. I love you. I want to say it. I think it
every minute, so don't you see you have to help me keep it straight and
beautiful always, George?"

XXII

"Who has made my little girl cry?"

The quavering tones reminded George. He walked from the little room
toward the others, and he saw that Old Planter had caught Sylvia's hand,
had drawn her to him, had felt the tears on her cheeks.

There rushed back to George that ancient interview in the library at
Oakmont, and here he was back at it, even in Old Planter's presence,
making her cry again. He wondered what Old Planter had said when Lambert
had told him who George Morton really was.

"You see, sir," he said, moodily, "I haven't changed so much from the
stable boy, Morton, you once threatened to send to smash if----"

Sylvia broke in sharply.

"He's never been told----"

"What are you talking about?" the old man quavered. "Was there ever a
Morton on my place, Sylvia? An old man, yes. He's dead. A young one----"

Slowly he shook his head from side to side. He peered suspiciously at
George out of his dim eyes.

"I don't remember."

Suddenly he cried out with a flash of the old authority:

"I'm growing sensitive, Morton. No jokes! What's he talking about?"

Sylvia took his hand. Her lips trembled.

"Never mind, Father. Come."

And as he let her guide him he drifted on.

"Sylvia! Have you got everything you want? I'll give you anything you
want if only you won't cry."

Outside rain had commenced to drizzle. From a tree in the little yard
yellow leaves fluttered down. Old Planter h