"Mother," he interrupted, "I didn't blow my money. I've saved nearly a
year's pay. It's yours."

"But, Daren, you'll need money," she protested.

"Not much. And maybe--I'll be strong enough to go to work--presently,"
he said, hopefully. "Do you think Manton will take me back--half days
at first?"

"I have my doubts, Daren," she replied, soberly. "Hattie Wilson has
your old job. And I hear they're pleased with her. Few of the boys got
their places back."

"Hattie Wilson!" exclaimed Lane. "Why, she was a kid in the eighth
grade when I left home."

"Yes, my son. But that was nearly three years ago. And the children
have sprung up like weeds. Wild weeds!"

"Well! That tousle-headed Wilson kid!" mused Lane. An uneasy
conviction of having been forgotten dawned upon Lane. He remembered
Blair Maynard's bitter prophecy, which he had been unable to accept.

"Anyway, Daren, are you able to work?" asked his mother.

"Sure," he replied, lying cheerfully, with a smile on his face. "Not
hard work, just yet, but I can do something."

His mother did not share his enthusiasm. She went on preparing the