ndoning the whole
affair, but as the hours elapsed and the time of his appointment drew
near he decided that it might not be unwise to give her one last
chance. She might come. Accordingly, when it still lacked a quarter of
an hour of the time, he went down into the parlor. Great was his
delight when he beheld her sitting in a chair and waiting--the
outcome of her acquiescence. He walked briskly up, a satisfied,
gratified smile on his face.

"So you did come after all," he said, gazing at her with the look
of one who has lost and recovered a prize. "What do you mean by not
writing me? I thought from the way you neglected me that you had made
up your mind not to come at all."

"I did write," she replied.

"Where?"

"To the address you gave me. I wrote three days ago."

"That explains it. It came too late. You should have written me
before. How have you been?"

"Oh, all right," she replied.

"You don't look it!" he said. "You look worried. What's the
trouble, Jennie? Nothing gone wrong out at your house, has there?"

It was a fortuitous question. He hardly knew why lie had asked it.
Yet it opened the door to what she wanted to say.

"My father's sick," she replied.

"What's happened to him?"

"He burned his hands at the glass-works. We've been terribly
worried. It looks as though he would not be able to use them any
more."

She paused, looking the distress she felt, and he saw plainly that
she was facing a crisis.

"That's too bad," he said. "That certainly is. When did this
happen?"

"Oh, almost three weeks ago now."

"It certainly is bad. Come in to lunch, though. I want to talk with
you. I've been wanting to get a better understanding of your family
affairs ever since I left." He led the way into the dining-room and
selected a secluded table. He tried to divert her mind by asking her
to order the luncheon, but she was too worried and too shy to do so
and he had to make out the menu by himself. Then he turned to her with
a cheering air. "Now, Jennie," he said, "I want you to tell me all
about your family. I got a little something of it last time, but I
want to get it straight. Your father, you said, was a glass-blower by
trade. Now he can't work any more at that, that's obvious."

"Yes," she said.

"How many other children are there?"

"Six."

"Are you the oldest?"

"No, my brother Sebastian is. He's twenty-two."

"And what does he do?"

"He's a clerk in a cigar store."

"Do you know h