alley.

"There he is," she cried. "Your artist-patient. Your dypsomaniac
rancher. A symbol, a symbol of the bonds which are crushing the brave
spirits of our--ahem!--young hearts."

But Kate ignored the approaching man. She had eyes only for the bright
face before her.

"You're a great child," she declared warmly. "I ought to be angry. I
ought to be just mad with you. I believe I really am. But--but the
cabbage business has broken up the storm of my feelings. Cabbage? Oh,
dear." She laughed softly. "You, with your soft, wavy hair, dressed as
though we had a New York hairdresser in the village. You, with your
great gray eyes, your charming little nose and cupid mouth. You, with
your beautiful new frock, only arrived from New York two days ago, and
which, by the way, I don't think you ought to wear sprawling upon
dusty ground. You--a cabbage! It just robs all you've said of, I won't
say truth, but--sense. There, child, you've said your say. But you
needn't worry about me. I'm not changed--really. Maybe I do many
things that seem strange to you, but--but--I know what I'm doing. Poor
old Charlie. Look at him. I often wonder what'll be the end of him."

Kate Seton sighed. It seemed as though there were a great depth of
motherly tenderness in her heart, and just now that tenderness was
directed toward the man approaching them.

But the lighter-minded Helen was less easily stirred. She smiled
amusedly in her sister's direction. Then her bright eyes glanced
swiftly down at the man.

"If all we hear is true, his end will be the penitentiary," she
declared with decision.

Kate glanced round quickly, and her eyes suddenly became quite hard.

"Penitentiary?" she questioned sharply.

Helen shrugged.

"Everybody says he's the biggest whisky smuggler in the country,
and--and his habits don't make things look much--different. Say, Kate,
O'Brien told me the other day that the police had him marked down.
They were only waiting to get him--red-handed."

The hardness abruptly died out of Kate's eyes. A faint sigh, perhaps
of relief, escaped her.

"They'll never do that," she declared firmly. "Everybody's making a
mistake about Charlie. I'm--sure. With all his failings Charlie's no
whisky-runner. He's too gentle. He's too--too honest to descend to
such a traffic."

Suddenly her eyes lit. She came close to Helen, and one firm hand
grasped the soft flesh of the girl's arm, and closed tightly upon it.

"Say, child," she went