"No," said the girl sadly. "Not since."

"Mother of Men!" said Kenny softly and drew a long breath. The next
step in his quest became all at once amazingly clear. And Kennicott
O'Neill was no man to shirk a duty, let John Whitaker say what he
chose. He was an unsuccessful parent, please God, trying to make good.

"And I," said Kenny, "tramping the footsore, weary miles always with
the hope of a letter and a clue!"

"I'm sorry," said Joan, her brown eyes gentle. "It would have been
wonderful if I could have sent you straight to your son and Donald."

"Wonderful!" repeated Kenny with a vague air of enthusiasm. But he
rather wished she hadn't said it.

"What will you do?"

"I shall find an inn," said Kenny firmly, "and stay here until you do
hear."

"There is no inn."

"Then," said Kenny irresponsibly, "I shall camp here under the willow,
buying beans. I have a can opener."

He caught in Joan's eyes a glint of gold and laughter and glanced
wistfully across the river at the house upon the cliff. It was
undeniably roomy.