t sneak job."

"It doesn't matter much, Billy. But now that you are here, will you help
me pack food and things? I'm going--away."

Then Billy recalled the letter, and fear rose sharply to the fore.

"You ain't going to go--no such thing!" he cried, coming in and slamming
the door behind him. "That's a--that's a fake letter."

"Yes, I know. It doesn't make any difference. But tell me, Billy, is it
father or Jude down at the Laval place?"

Billy was stricken with surprise.

"How d' yer know?" he gasped.

"Oh! it was all so foolish!" she answered smiling feebly. "If he--if Mr.
Gaston had sent it, don't you see that there would have been no need of
this mystery? But is it Jude or father, Billy?"

"It's old Birkdale," Billy burst out, and then between fear and relief
he related what had happened in the hut in the woods.

"Then it's a longer way I must go." Joyce sighed wearily. "Do you think
I could get there--walking, Billy?"

The boy eyed her as if she had gone crazy.

"'Course not. But what you want to go for, anyway?"

Joyce came close to him. He seemed the only human thing left for her to
cling to, the only one to call upon in her sore need.

"Billy, I'm going to Jude because--he's mine, and I belong to him--and
it never pays in this world to take what doesn't belong to you."

"But--Gaston--you belong to him--and I want--you--to have him!" Billy
felt a mad inclination to cry, but struggled against it.

"No, I never belonged to him, Billy. Believe that all your life--it will
make a better man of you. He was heavenly good to me because he was
sorry for me--and wanted to see me happy. But happiness doesn't
come--that way. Sometimes it seems as if it did--sometimes it seems as
if God meant it so--perhaps He did--but the people out--in the
world--the people that should have known how--the people who had time
and money and learning, they've muddled things so--that we can't even
see what God meant for right or wrong.

"Why, Billy, they punish the wrong people, and then when they find
out--they do not know the way to set it straight; but it doesn't matter,
Billy, we have to go on, on, on, the best we can!"

Joyce put her arms around the boy, and bent her head on his thin,
shaking shoulder.

She no longer wore the yellow gown. She was plain, commonplace Joyce,
familiar to Billy's unregenerated youth.

But Billy did not fail her. Awkwardly, but with wonderful understanding,
he put his arms around her, and