Her eyes were solemn, beseeching, compelling.

His anger died suddenly, leaving only a sort of indignant pity for
her unfriended youth.

"You are--" he began, then stopped short. A painter was swiftly
descending his ladder, whistling as he came.

"My name," she said, without appearing to notice, "is Lydia Orr
Bolton. No one seems to remember--perhaps they didn't know my
mother's name was Orr. My uncle took me away from here. I was only a
baby. It seemed best to--"

"Where are they now?" he asked guardedly.

The painter had disappeared behind the house. But he could hear heavy
steps on the roof over their heads.

"Both are dead," she replied briefly. "No one knew my uncle had much
money; we lived quite simply and unpretentiously in South Boston.
They never told me about the money; and all those years I was praying
for it! Well, it came to me--in time."

His eyes asked a pitying question.

"Oh, yes," she sighed. "I knew about father. They used to take me to
visit him in the prison. Of course I didn't understand, at first. But
gradually, as I grew older, I began to realize what had happened--to
him and to me. It was then I began to make plans. He would be free,
sometime; he would need a home. Once he tried to escape, with some