od?" he asked.

"No," was the stifled answer with a shake of the dark head.

"Can you tell me about it? I might be able to advise, help you?"

"No!" This time the sound was long drawn out with a shrill sob.

What was to be done?

"Try not to cry!" he said gently. "Tell me what it is all about. If you
need help--perhaps I can help you!"

So much protecting sympathy given to her, after that letter, made Gwen
feel the joy of utter weakness in the presence of strength, of saving
support.

"Shall I read that letter?" he asked, putting out his hand.

Gwen clutched it tighter. No, no, that would be fatal! He laid his hand
upon hers. Gwen began to tremble. She shook from head to foot, even her
teeth chattered. She held tight on to that letter--but she leaned nearer
to him.

"Then," said the Warden, without removing his hand, "tell me what is
troubling you? It is something in that letter?"

Gwen moved her lips and made a great effort to speak.

"It's--it's nothing!" she said.

"Nothing!" repeated the Warden, just a little sternly.

This was too much for Gwen, the tears rose again swiftly into her eyes
and began to drop down her cheeks. "It's only----" she began.

"Yes, tell me," said the Warden, coaxingly, for those tears hurt him,
"tell me, child, never mind what it is."

"It's only--," she began again, and now her teeth chattered, "only--that
nobody cares what happens to me--I've got no home!"

That this pretty, inoffensive, solitary child had no home, was no news
to the Warden. His sister had hinted at it on the day that Gwen was left
behind by her mother. But he had dismissed the matter, as not concerning
the college or the reconstruction of National Education. Since then
whenever it cropped up again, he again dismissed it, because--well,
because his mind was not clear. Now, suddenly, he seemed to be more
certain, his thoughts clearer. Each tear that Gwen dropped seemed to
drop some responsibility upon him. His face must have betrayed
this--perhaps his hands also. How it happened the Warden did not quite
know, but he was conscious that the girl made a movement towards him,
and then he found himself holding her in his arms. She was weeping
convulsively into his shirt-front--weeping out the griefs of her
childhood and girlhood and staining his shirt front with responsibility
for them all, soaking him with petty cares, futile recollections, mean
subterfuges, silly triumphs, sordid disappointments, all the sma