opped her wet
face in her hands for a moment before she went to do her last duty for
Jerry-Jo.

CHAPTER XVIII

The following June Priscilla Glenn graduated. She and John Boswell grew
quite merry over the event.

"I really can't let you spend anything on me," she said laughingly;
"nothing more than the cost of a few flowers. I have the awful weight of
debt upon me at the beginning of my career. One hundred dollars to Master
Farwell, and----"

"The funeral expenses of that poor waif you were so interested in! My
dear child, you are as niggardly with your philanthropies as you are with
your favours. Why not be generous with me? And, by the way, can you tell
me just why that young fellow appealed to you so? I daresay other
'unknowns' drift into St. Albans."

"He looked--you will think me foolish, Mr. Boswell--but he looked like
some one I once knew in Kenmore."

The warm June day drifted sunnily into Boswell's study window. There was
a fragrance of flowers and the note of birds. Priscilla, in her plain
white linen dress, was sitting on the broad window seat, and Boswell,
from his winged chair, looked at her with a tightening of the throat.
There were times when she made him feel as he felt when Farwell Maxwell
used to look at him before the shadow fell between them--the shadow that
darkened both their lives.

"And that was why you had a--a Kenmore name graven on the stone?"

"Yes, Mr. Boswell, Jerry-Jo McAlpin. Jerry-Jo is dead, too, you know.
They name living people after dead ones. Why not dead people?"

"Why, indeed? It's quite an idea. Quite an original idea. But as to my
spending money on your graduation, a little more added to what you
already owe me will not count, and, besides, there is that trifle left
from Farwell's loan still to your credit."

"Now, Mr. Boswell, don't press me too close! I was a sad innocent when
I came from the In-Place, and a joke is a joke, but you mustn't bank on
it."

The bright head nodded cheerfully at the small, crumpled figure in the
deep chair.

"After you live in New York three years, Mr. Boswell, you never mistake
a shilling for a dollar, sir. But just because it is such a heavenly
day--and between you and me, how much of that magic fund is left?"

"I've mislaid my account," Boswell replied, the look that Toky watched
for stealing over his thin face; "but, roughly speaking, I should say
that, with the interest added, about fifty dollars, perhaps a trifle
more