What possessed you to come half-way up a mountain, instead of
going on to the top?"

"Poverty, miss!"

Miss Mayfield flushed a little at this practical direct answer to
her half-figurative question. However, she began to think that moral
Alpine-climbing youth might have pecuniary restrictions in their high
ambitions, and that the hero of "Excelsior" might have succumbed to
more powerful opposition than the wisdom of Age or the blandishments of
Beauty.

"You mean that poverty up there is more expensive?"

"Yes, miss."

"But you would like to live there?"

"Yes."

They were both silent. Miss Mayfield glanced at Jeff under the corners
of her lashes. He was leaning against a tree, absorbed in thought.
Accustomed to look upon him as a pleasing picturesque object, quite
fresh, original, and characteristic, she was somewhat disturbed to find
that to-day he presented certain other qualities which clearly did not
agree with her preconceived ideas of his condition. He had abandoned
his usual large top-boots for low shoes, and she could not help noticing
that his feet were small and slender as were his hands, albeit browned
by exposure. His ruddy color was gone too, and his face, pale with
sorrow and experience, had a new expression. His buttoned-up coat and
white collar, so unlike his usual self, also had its suggestions--which
Miss Mayfield was at first inclined to resent. Women are quick to notice
and augur more or less wisely from these small details. Nevertheless,
she began in quite another tone.

"Do you remember your mother--MR.--MR.--BRIGGS?"

Jeff noticed the new epithet. "No, miss; she died when I was quite
young."

"Your father, then?"

Jeff's eye kindled a little, aggressively. "I remember HIM."

"What was he?"

"Miss Mayfield!"

"What was his business or profession?"

"He--hadn't--any!"

"Oh, I see--a gentleman of property."

Jeff hesitated, looked at Miss Mayfield hurriedly, colored, and did not
reply.

"And lost his property, Mr. Briggs?" With one of those rare impulses of
an overtasked gentle nature, Jeff turned upon her almost savagely. "My
father was a gambler, and shot himself at a gambling table."

Miss Mayfield rose hurriedly. "I--I beg your pardon, Mr. Jeff."

Jeff was silent.

"You know--you MUST know--I did not mean--"

No reply.

"Mr. Jeff!"

Her little hand fluttered toward him, and lit upon his sleeve, where it
was suddenly captured and pressed passionately to his lips.