ew back within the narrow limits
of the window, and was silent.

He withdrew his eyes from her with an effort, and did not immediately
answer. When he did, it was in a cool business tone. "I do not know
what relation Mr. Van Ness may hold to you hereafter, if any," he said.
"But he seems to me thoroughly honest and manly. He is the first
professed reformer I ever saw who was not either subservient or
aggressive to me, as a newspaper-man who did not ride his hobby."

"I do not see him with your eyes," she said with a shrug. "Bruno's,
rather."

Neckart laughed. After the manner of men, he had judged the man who was
crossing his life with calm common sense and justice, but he was quite
satisfied that the woman with neither should condemn him.

The late clear twilight lingered with a haze of red in the sky, although
the sun had been down for an hour or more. Jane stood irresolutely in
the window. Through the bushes she could see the stoop where her father
and the judge sat smoking, Mr. Van Ness beside them, his benign,
sheep-like gaze wandering slowly around in search of her.

"Of course he does not smoke!" she said. "He has not a single weakness
on which one can hang a liking; and he has actually taken father's own
chair!" which by the way she had cushioned herself years ago, when it
and two small stools furnished their shabby room. No wonder that she and
the captain looked upon it as a sacred relic.

The window where they stood was shaded on the outside by privet and
althea bushes: it opened to the ground, and a sandy little footpath ran
directly to the river, where her boat was moored. Usually, while the
captain took his after-dinner nap, she rowed along the shore, and
Neckart, when he was there, would sit in the stern reading or scribbling
his next leader, but oftener leaning back, his hands clasped behind his
head, listening with half-closed eyes to her chatter. It is significant
to note the occasion on which a silent woman has a _flux de bouche_. The
necessity for talking was upon Jane at this moment. There were twenty
things which she must tell Mr. Neckart to-night--how the shoemaker
Twiss, who used to live--or starve--in the alley back of their garden,
was here as head-gardener; and how capitally that consumptive
sempstress, Nichols, managed the dairy and was growing quite fat at the
work; and how that boy in the stable, whom Neckart had brought from the
printing-office, where he was going headlong to the devi