e must keep the
secret still. No one else in Denboro must know. You know what gossip
there would be. There is enough now. I presume I am called a traitor and
a blackguard by every person in the town."

"Why no, you are not. That is the strange thing about it. Luther was up
at the post-office this morning and no one seems to know of your sale of
the land. Captain Dean has, apparently, kept the news to himself. Why do
you suppose he does that?"

"I don't know. I don't know, unless it is because he--no, I can't
understand it at all. However, they will know soon enough. By the way,
I have never asked Dorinda where Lute was that noon--it seems ages
ago--when he was missing at dinner time. And how did he know of Mr.
Colton's illness?"

She smiled. "Poor Luther!" she said. "He announced his intention of
running away, you remember. As a matter of fact he met the Coltons'
chauffeur in the motor car and the chauffeur invited him to go to
Bayport with him. The chauffeur had an errand there. Lute accepted--as
he says, automobile rides don't come his way every day in the week--and
they had trouble with the engine and did not get back until almost
night. Then Miss Colton told him of her father's seizure and gave him
the note for you. It was to you she turned in her trouble, Boy. She
trusts you. Roscoe, I--I think she--"

"Don't say it, Mother. All that is ended. I am going to forget--if I
can."

The rest of our conversation need not be written here. She said many
things, such as fond mothers say to their sons and which the sons know
too well they do not deserve. We discussed my leaving Denboro and she
was so brave and self-sacrificing that my conscience smote me.

"I'll stay, Mother," I said. "I can't leave you. I'll stay and fight it
out with you. After all, it will not be much worse than it was before I
went to the bank."

But she would not hear of my staying. I had a friend in Chicago, a
distant relative who knew our story. Perhaps he could help me to a start
somewhere. She kissed me and bade me keep up my courage, and I left
her. I ate a hurried meal, a combination of breakfast and dinner, and,
dodging Lute, who was in the back yard waiting to question me concerning
the Coltons, walked down to the boathouse. There, in my armchair, I
tried to think, to map out some sort of plan for my future.

It was a hopeless task. I was not interested in it. I did not much care
what became of me. If it were not for Mother I should not