"I don't know," said the boy, in a low voice. He led the way, and Marche followed him out of doors.

A gray light made plain the desolation of the scene, although the sun had not yet risen. To the south and west the sombre pine woods stretched away; eastward, a few last year's cornstalks stood, withered in the clearing, through which a rutted road ran down to the water.

"It isn't the finest farming land in the world, is it, Jim?" he said humorously.

"I haven't seen any other land," said the boy quietly.

"Don't you remember the Northern country at all?"

[Pg 45] "No, sir—except Central Park."

[Pg 45]

"Oh, you were New-Yorkers?"

"Yes, sir. Father——" and he fell abruptly silent.

They were walking together down the rutted road, and Marche glanced around at him.

"What were you going to say about your father, Jim?"

"Nothing." Then truth jogged his arm. "I mean I was only going to say that father and mother and all of us lived there."

"In New York?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is your—your mother living?"

"No, sir."

"I think I saw her picture in the sitting room," he said gently. "She [Pg 46]must have been everything a mother should be."

[Pg 46]

"Yes, sir."

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