Farwell frowned.

"Boswell has touched you with his fanciful methods," he muttered; "is
it--for the best?"

"I am sure it is. And--my--my people, Master Farwell, my mother?"

At this Farwell started and stepped back. The light from an electric lamp
fell full on the girl's quivering, brilliant face. He had told Boswell of
the mother's death.

"You--you did not know?" he asked. "She died----"

"Died? Master Farwell, my mother dead!"

"You see--how it hurts when Boswell plays with you?"

A note of bitterness crept into the voice.

"When the day of reckoning comes--it hurts, it hurts like--hell!"

He had forgotten the girl, the white, frantic face.

"Tell me, tell me when she, my poor mother, died?"

The words brought him back sharply, and with wonderful tenderness he told
her.

"Long Jean was with her. She would have her and no other, because she