or the dirty-faced brat you brought with you. Plunge in.
Look those men in the eye to-day, and tell them you don't want their
money unless you can give value received. What is New York more than
Ridgeville, anyway?"

When he had dressed, he stood in the doorway of the other room. Dora was
now copying the letters from her book on a piece of paper with a pencil.

"That's the idea," he said, smiling. "Come on, let's go to breakfast."
He had never done it before, but he slid his arm about the waist of his
foster-sister and playfully drew her toward the stairs. She appreciated
it. It was as if she started to kiss him, but was too timid, daring only
to incline her head against his arm.

"Harold says I am a heathen," she said. "What is that, brother John?"

He frowned thoughtfully and then smiled indulgently. "The church folks
say it is a person that doesn't believe in a God. They pretend to
believe in one because they make a living out of it. Let them think what
they like. It doesn't concern us."

"Yes, it does," Dora answered, firmly. "Harold, Betty, and her mother
all say that I must believe in God, that I must study about Him, listen
to sermons, and--and even pray to Him every night and morning. They say
I must go to Sunday-school and learn all about the Bible and Adam,
and--and somebody else."

"Well, it is all right; go with them," John said in slow perplexity.
"Most people do such things, and maybe you'd better. I don't want to
stand in your way. Yes, you'd better go along with them and be like the
rest. When you are grown you can think it all out for yourself, as I
have."

Betty was coming from her mother's room, one flight below, and she
turned and greeted them with a smile.

"She is a nice girl," John thought, as she and Dora linked arms and
went ahead of him down the stairs. "She will make a fine woman, but she
will never be equal to--"

He checked his thought. A storm of pain swept through him, almost
depriving him of strength. He followed the children into the
dining-room, which was well filled with boarders, some eating, some
waiting to be served, and all chatting volubly. There was a great
clatter of knives, forks, and dishes. Mrs. McGwire was helping in the
kitchen, and Betty joined her and became a waitress herself.

"I must fight it off--kill it, or it will down me!" John said to
himself, as he and Dora sat waiting to be served. "I will never do the
work before me if I keep this up, and it must be