that there was little danger of this in quiet Forestville. Still,
the illusion that he was in some sense her protector pleased him
in his sentimental mood, and in after years he often recalled this
first faint foreshadowing of his lot.

Could he have seen the poor girl, when at last, conscious of
solitude and darkness, she gave way to the passionate grief that,
for her mother's sake, she had so long repressed, he would have
felt that she was distant indeed--far removed by experiences of
which he as yet knew nothing. She had been gazing southward, toward
the city in which her father was vainly seeking a foothold on the
steep incline up which the unfortunate must struggle, and in fancy
she saw him lonely, dejected, and deprived of the family life of
which he was so fond. Her sympathy for him was as deep as her strong
affection. But in spite of her will her thoughts would recur to
the beautiful dream which had been shattered in that distant city.
Not a word had she heard from Arnold since leaving it, and her
heart so misgave her concerning the future that she threw herself
on the sod, sobbing bitterly, and almost wishing that she were
beneath it and at rest. In the deep abstraction of her grief she
had scarcely noted the lapse of time, nor where she was, and the
moon had risen when she again glided by Roger, her step and bearing
suggesting lassitude and dejection.

Soon after he entered the sitting-room, where he found his mother
with a troubled look on her face. "Roger," she said, "I feel sorry
for these people. When I went upstairs a while ago I heard Mrs.
Jocelyn crying in her room, and coming down with the lamp I met the
young lady on the stairs, and her eyes were very red. It's certain
they are in deep trouble. What can it be? It's queer Mr. Jocelyn