rstood. I had seized her hand and now she stroked it gently with
her own.

"So it is true," she said, quietly. "You love her, Roscoe."

"Yes! yes! yes!" I answered, desperately. "Oh, don't speak of it,
Mother! I am insane, I think."

"Does she care for you, Boy? Have you spoken to her?"

"MOTHER! Is it likely?"

"But I think she does care, Roscoe. I think she does. She must."

This was so characteristic that, although I was in anything but a
laughing mood, I could not help smiling.

"How could she help it? I presume you mean," I observed, sarcastically.
"There, Mother, don't worry. I did not intend that you or anyone else
should know what an idiot I am, but don't worry--I shan't do anything
ridiculous or desperate. I may go somewhere, to get away from Denboro,
and to earn a living for you and me, but that is all. We won't speak of
her again."

"But if she does care, Boy?"

"If she does--Of course, she doesn't--but, if she does, can't you see
that only makes it worse? Think who she is and who and what I am! Her
family--Humph! you have not met her mother; I have."

"But if she loves you--"

"Do you think I should permit her to ruin her life--for me?"

"Poor boy! I am SO sorry!"

"It is all right, Mother. There! we won't be foolish any longer. I am
going for a walk and I want you to rest. I am glad, we have had this
talk; it has done me good to speak what I have been thinking. Good-by. I
will be back soon."

She would have detained me, but I broke away and went out. My walk was a
long one. I tramped the beach for eight long miles and, though one
might think that my adventures of the night before had provided exercise
enough, this additional effort seemed to do no harm. I forgot dinner
entirely and supper was on the table when I returned to the house.

I found Dorinda in a condition divided between anxiety and impatience.

"Have you seen anything of that man of mine?" she demanded. "I ain't
seen hide nor hair of him since I pitched him out of this room this
mornin'!"

I was surprised and a little disturbed. I remembered Lute's threat about
"never seein' me no more."

"You don't suppose he has run away, or anything like that, do you?" I
asked.

"He wouldn't run far; runnin's too much like work. But why he wan't home
for dinner I don't understand. I never knew him to miss a meal's vittles
afore. I hope nothin' ain't happened to him, that's all. Well, we'll
have our supper, anyhow. After that we'll see