"And you--and you've heard from your brother!"

"No," said the girl sadly. "Not since."

"Mother of Men!" said Kenny softly and drew a long breath. The next
step in his quest became all at once amazingly clear. And Kennicott
O'Neill was no man to shirk a duty, let John Whitaker say what he
chose. He was an unsuccessful parent, please God, trying to make good.

"And I," said Kenny, "tramping the footsore, weary miles always with
the hope of a letter and a clue!"

"I'm sorry," said Joan, her brown eyes gentle. "It would have been
wonderful if I could have sent you straight to your son and Donald."

"Wonderful!" repeated Kenny with a vague air of enthusiasm. But he
rather wished she hadn't said it.

"What will you do?"

"I shall find an inn," said Kenny firmly, "and stay here until you do
hear."

"There is no inn."

"Then," said Kenny irresponsibly, "I shall camp here under the willow,
buying beans. I have a can opener."

He caught in Joan's eyes a glint of gold and laughter and glanced
wistfully across the river at the house upon the cliff. It was
undeniably roomy.

"If only your house had been an inn!" he said. "An old, old ramshackle
inn, quaint and archaic like the punt yonder and your gown! It's such
a wonderful spot."

Joan met his eyes and made no pretense of misunderstanding. She could
not.

"Your uncle!" exclaimed Kenny with an air of inspiration and then
looked apologetic.

The girl's face flamed. Oddly enough she looked at her gown. Kenny
wondered why. He found her distress and the hot color of her face
mystifying and lovely.

"I--I know he would!" said Joan in a low voice and looked away. "The
house is large. Rooms and rooms of it. And only Uncle and I, save
Hughie and his family. Hughie works the farm and lives yonder in the
kitchen wing."

Kenny reached for his knapsack and started toward the boat.

"Thank Heaven, that's settled!" he said pleasantly. "You saw for
yourself what Garry said about work. Honestly, Miss West, I ought to
work. I ought to put in a summer sketching. I can sketch here and
wait."

The punt, flat-bottomed and old, he proclaimed a delight. When the
girl did not answer he turned and found her staring. She seemed a
little dazed.

"I'm thinking," said Joan, her eyes round and grave with astonishment,
"how you seem always to have been here."

He laughed, his color high. His face, Joan thought, was much too young
and vivid for anybody's f