r him to go back to the school
days, and spare nothing of his experience. She began at the time she
saw him last--she remembered the day, the date, the clothes he wore,
the horse he rode--and she told the story of those lonely years when
his few letters were epochs, and the effect it had when they ceased.
So, with simple directness, she went on to relate the downfall of her
father and how the disgrace and heartbreak had killed her mother. When
she finished her story she was crying.

"Lucy, don't cry. Just think--here we are!" he exclaimed, as she ended.

"That's what--makes me cry," she replied brokenly.

"Very well. Here. Cry on my shoulder," he said forcefully, and
despite her resistance he drew her into his arms and her head to his
breast. There he held her, feeling the strain of her muscles slowly
relax. She did not weep violently, but in a heartbroken way that yet
seemed relief.

"Pan, this is--is foolish," she said, presently stirring. "I mean my
crying here in your arms, as if it were a refuge. But, oh! I--I have
needed someone--something so terribly."

"I don't see where it's foolish. Reckon it's very sweet and wonderful
for me.... Lucy, let's not rush right into arguments. We're bound to
disagree. But let's put that off.... I'm so darned glad to see you,
_know_ you, that I'm the foolish one."

"You're a boy, for all your size. How can we help but talk of my
troubles? ... Of this horrible fix I'm in! ... How can I lay my head
on your shoulder? ... I didn't. You forced me to."

"Well, if you want to deny me such happiness, you can," replied Pan.

"Is it happiness for you--knowing it's wrong--and can never be again?"
she whispered.

"Pure heaven!" he said. "Lucy, don't say this is wrong. You belong to
_me_. My mother told me once you'd never have lived but for me."

"Yes, my mother told me the same thing.... Oh, how sad it is!"

"Sad, nothing! It was beautiful. And I tell you that you do belong to
me."

"My soul does, yes," she returned, dreamily. And then as if reminded
of her bodily weakness she moved away from him to the corner of the
bench.

"All right, Lucy. Have it your way now. But you'll only have all the
more to make up to me later," said Pan, with resigned good nature.

"Pan, you don't seem to recognize anything but your own will," she
returned, pondering. "I've _got_ to save my father.... There's only
one way."

"Don't talk such rot to me," he flashed, s