lashing in his eyes, and more than once his
glance returned to the sky, as if seeking counsel of its immensity.

Upon what point was Blake speculating? What were the thoughts at work
behind his silence? The questions tormented him like the flicking of a
whip, and he marked with an untoward jealousy the profundity of Blake's
calm--marked it until, goaded by a sudden loneliness, he cried his fear
aloud.

"Ned! You missed me in these weeks?"

Blake started, giving evidence of a broken dream. "Missed you, boy?" he
said, quietly. "I didn't know how much I missed you until I saw you
again to-day."

"And you have made no new friend?"

"Not a solitary one--man, woman, or child!"

The reply would have satisfied the most suspicious; and Max gave a
quick, deep sigh of relief.

"Ah! I thank God!"

In the darkness, Blake smiled, looking indulgently at the youthful
figure silhouetted against the sky. "Why are you so absurd, boy?" he
asked, gently. "Surely, I have proved myself!"

"Forgive me! I was jealous!" With one of his engaging impulses, the boy
straightened himself and came across the balcony. "I am a strange
creature, Ned! I want you altogether for myself--I want to know you
satisfied to be all mine!"

Blake looked up. "Do you know," he said, irrelevantly and a little
dreamily, "do you know that is just the speech I could imagine issuing
from the lips of your picture! Tell me something of this mysterious
sister of yours; I've been patient until now."

Max drew back into the darkness.

"Of my sister? There is nothing to tell!"

"Nonsense! There's always something to tell. It's the sense of a story
behind things that keeps half of us alive. Come! I've spun you many a
yarn." With the quiet air of the man who means to have his way, he took
out and lighted a cigar.

"Come, boy! I'm listening!"

Max had turned back to the railing, and once more he leaned out into the
night; but now his eyes were for the meshed lights of the city and no
longer for the stars, his restlessness had heightened to excitement, his
heart seemed to beat in his throat. The temptation to make confession,
to make confession here, isolated in the midst of the world, with the
friend of his soul for confessor, caught him with the urgency of an
embracing gale. To lay himself bare, and yet retain his garments! His
head swam, as he yielded to the suggestion.

"There is nothing to tell!" he said again.

"That's admitted! All the best stories beg