the most alive thing that
he had ever seen.

During this walk their chatter had been of everything under the sun
except themselves. Both were so frankly and unaffectedly glad to be
able to talk at all that they broke into each other's laughing and
childish comments on obvious things and forgot themselves in the
pleasure of meeting. But now the time had come for mutual confidences,
and both, in the inevitable young way, felt the desire to paint the
picture of their own particular grievance against life which should
make them out to be the two genuine martyrs of the century. It was now
a question of which of them got the first look-in. The silence was
deliberate and came out of the fine sense of sportsmanship that
belonged to each. Although bursting to pour out her troubles, Joan
wanted to be fair and give Martin the first turn, and Martin, equally
keen to prove himself the champion of badly treated men, held himself
in, in order that Joan, being a woman, should step into the limelight.
It was, of course, the male member of the duet who began. A man's ego
is naturally more aggressive than a woman's.

"Do you know," said Martin, arranging himself in a more comfortable
attitude, "that it's over two months since I spoke to any one of about
my own age?"

Joan settled herself to listen. With the uncanny intuition that makes
women so disconcerting, she realized that she had missed her chance and
must let the boy have his head.

Not until he had unburdened his soul would she be able, she knew, to
focus his complete attention upon herself.

"Tell me about it," she said.

He gave her a grateful look. "You know the house with the kennels over
there--the hounds don't let you miss it. I've been wandering about the
place without seeing anybody since Father died."

"Oh, then, you're Martin Gray!"

"Yes."

"I was awfully sorry about your father."

"Thanks." The boy's mouth trembled a little, and he worked his thumb
into the soft earth. "He was one of the very best, and it was not
right. He was too young and too much missed. I don't understand it. He
had twenty-five years to his credit, and I wanted to show him what I
was going to do. It's all a puzzle to me. There's something frightfully
wrong about it all, and it's been worrying me awfully."

Joan couldn't find anything to say. Years before, when she was four
years old, Death had come to her house and taken her own father away,
and she had a dim remembrance of dark room