me with her--they could manage to live, to
exist in some way, she said--but she knew he would not be content
to have her support him. There was no chance of employment in
Orham; he would therefore be forced to go elsewhere, to go
wandering about looking for work. And that she could not bear to
think of.

"You see," she said, "I--I feel as if I were the only helper and--
well--guardian the poor boy has. I can imagine," smiling wanly,
"how he would scorn the idea of his needing a guardian, but I feel
as if it were my duty to be with him, to stand by him when every
one else has deserted him. Besides," after an instant's
hesitation, "I feel--I suppose it is unreasonable, but I feel as if
I had neglected my duty before; as if perhaps I had not watched him
as carefully as I should, or encouraged him to confide in me; I
can't help feeling that perhaps if I had been more careful in this
way the dreadful thing might not have happened. . . . Oh," she
added, turning away again, "I don't know why I am telling all these
things to you, I'm sure. They can't interest you much, and the
telling isn't likely to profit either of us greatly. But I am so
alone, and I have brooded over my troubles so much. As I said I
have felt as if I must talk with some one. But there--good
morning, Mr. Winslow."

"Just a minute, please, Mrs. Armstrong; just a minute. Hasn't your
brother got any friends in Middleford who could help him get some
work--a job--you know what I mean? Seems as if he must have, or
you must have."

"Oh, we have, I suppose. We had some good friends there, as well
as others whom we thought were friends. But--but I think we both
had rather die than go back there; I am sure I should. Think what
it would mean to both of us."

Jed understood. She might have been surprised to realize how
clearly he understood. She was proud, and it was plain to see that
she had been very proud of her brother. And Middleford had been
her home where she and her husband had spent their few precious
years together, where her child was born, where, after her brother
came, she had watched his rise to success and the apparent
assurance of a brilliant future. She had begun to be happy once
more. Then came the crash, and shame and disgrace instead of pride
and confidence. Jed's imagination, the imagination which was quite
beyond the comprehension of those who called him the town crank,
grasped it all--or, at least, all its essentials. H