er or mother to be disturbed by
my lacks; one does not mind being a grief to second cousins." He paused;
then added, in another tone, "But life is lonely enough sometimes."

Two violet eyes met his as he spoke, gazing at him so earnestly,
sincerely, and almost wistfully that for an instant he lost himself. He
began to speculate as to the best way of retaining that wistful
interest; and then, suddenly, as a dam gives way in the night and lets
out the flood, all his good resolutions crumbled, and his vagrant fancy,
long indulged, asserted its command, and took its own way again. He knew
that he could not approach her to the ordinary degree and in the
ordinary way of flirtation; she would not understand or allow it. With
the intuition which was his most dangerous gift he also knew that there
was a way of another kind. And he used it.

[Illustration: "SHE STARTED SLIGHTLY."]

His sudden change of purpose had taken but a moment. "Lonely enough," he
repeated, "and bad enough. Do you think there is any use in trying to
be better?" He spoke as if half in earnest.

"We must all try," said the girl, gravely.

"But one needs help."

"It will be given."

He rose, walked to the door of the arbor, as if hesitating, then came
back abruptly. "_You_ could help me," he said, standing in front of her,
with his eyes fixed upon her face.

She started slightly, and turned her eyes away, but did not speak. Nor
did he. At last, as the silence grew oppressive, she said, in a low
voice: "You are mistaken, I think. I can not."

He sat down again, and began slowly to excavate a hole in the sand with
the end of his cane, to the consternation of a colony of ants who lived
in a thriving village under the opposite bench, but still in dangerous
proximity to the approaching tunnel.

"I have never pretended to be anything but an idle, useless fellow," he
said, his eyes intent upon his work. "But my life does not satisfy me
always, and at times I am seized by a horrible loneliness. I am not all
bad, I hope. If any one cared enough--but no one has ever cared."

"You have many friends," said Anne, her eyes fixed upon the hues of the
western sky.

"As you see them. The people here are examples of my friends."

"You must have others who are nearer."

"No, no one. I have never had a home." He looked up as he said this, and
met her eyes, withdrawn for a moment from the sunset; they expressed so
much pity that he felt ashamed of himself. For his