"I'm Alton Havenith's granddaughter," she explained sedately. And,
with a sudden desire that he should know the worst, she added, "I'm
the one he writes poetry to."

He must have caught a note of regret in her voice--oh, he was a very
wonderful person! for what he said wasn't a bit what Joy expected
even him to say--the "How lovely for you!" that she was braced for.

"Why, you poor kiddie!" said he, "and you ought to be playing tag or
tennis or something. I can't see much of you, except one braid that
the light's on; but you're just a little thing, aren't you?"

Joy did not answer. She looked up at him, as the crack of light
widened behind him, and showed him clearly for a moment. He was so
very handsome, standing there with his brows contracted in a little
frown over his pleasant gray eyes, that Joy felt her heart do a
queer thing, as if it turned over.

He came a little nearer her, and sat down on the floor, below her,
quite naturally.

"And you're awfully lonesome, and you wish something would happen?"
said his kind voice. It was a lovely voice, Joy thought. It was
authoritative, yet with a little caressing note in it, as if he
would look after you very carefully--and you would love it.

"How did you know?" she asked.

"Oh, I just could tell," he said, and it seemed a perfectly clear