st tormenting in Jerry-Jo's. They were both at ages when such an
occurrence would appeal to a girl's sentimentality and a young man's
hatred.

The family did not return to the Hill Place for many summers, and only
once during the following years did Priscilla's name pass Travers's
lips.

Apropos of something they were talking about he said to Helen Travers: "I
wonder what has become of that little dancing dervish up in Canada? She
wasn't plain, ordinary stuff, but I suppose she'll be knocked into shape.
Maybe that half-breed, Jerry-Jo, will get her when she's been reduced to
his level. There are not girls enough to go around up there, I fancy.
That little thing, though, was too spiritual to be crushed and
remodelled. As she danced that day, her scarlet cape flying out in the
breeze, she looked like a living flame darting up from the red rock.
And those awful words she uttered--poor little pagan! Jerry-Jo told
me afterward what the lure of the States meant: it's a provincial
expression. Mother, if the lure should ever control that girl of Lonely
Farm I wish we might greet her, for safety's sake."

But it was not likely that either of the Traverses for a moment conceived
of the reality of Priscilla leaving the In-Place, and in time even the
memory of her became blurred to Dick by the eternal verities of his
strenuous young life.

Gradually his lameness disappeared until a slight hesitation at times was
all that remained. Five years of college, two abroad--one with Helen, one
with Doctor Ledyard--and then Richard Thornton Travers (Helen had, when
he went to college, insisted for the first time upon the middle name)
hung out his modest sign--it looked brazenly glaring to him--under that
of Thomas R. Ledyard, and nervously awaited the first call upon him. He
was twenty-five when he started life, and Priscilla Glenn, back in
forgotten Kenmore, was nearing nineteen, with Jerry-Jo in hot pursuit
behind her. As to Anton Farwell, there was no doubt about his age now.
Not even the very old called him young, and there was a pathos about him
that attracted the attention of those with whom he had lived so long.

"He looks haunted," Mary Terhune ventured; "he starts at times when one
speaks sudden, real pitiful like. The look of his eyes, too, has the
queer flash of them as sees forward as well as back. Do you mind, Mrs.
McAdam, how 'tis said that them as comes nigh to drowning have a glimpse
on before as well as the picture of a