"Oh, I'm Betty Bean, that's all."

"And you live here?"

"No. I'm just dying here."

"Dying!" David exclaimed in surprise. "Why, you don't look like a dying person."

"Maybe I don't, but I am. I'm just staying here because I have to. My mother's a widow, and I want to earn some money to help her, and as this was the only place I could get I had to take it."

"So you do not like it, then?"

"Who would like any place where there is such a brute as Jim Goban?

My, I'm sorry for you. To think of any man getting into his clutches."

"But surely I won't be any worse off than you are."

"I'm not so sure about that. You see, I'm about boss here, and do and say just what I like."

"How's that?"

"Well, I'm the only person Jim can get to work here. All the girls for miles around know what kind of a creature he is, and they wouldn't come for any amount of money. They're scared to death of him. But I'm not, and I tell him right to his face what I think of him, and the way he treats his poor wife. He would like to horsewhip me, but he knows that if I leave no one else would come in my place. But I'm glad now that I am here so I can look after you."

"Look after me!"

"Yes. I guess you'll need me all right. I know who you are, and I'm sorry for you. I'm going to stand between you and Jim Goban. He's scared to death of me, for I'm the only one who dares give him a tongue-lashing, and I do it whenever it is necessary, which is quite often."

"You're a brave girl," and David looked with admiration upon the slight form by his side. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen last March. But one's age is nothing. I've done a woman's work ever since I was ten. I stand up for my rights now, though. When I first came here Jim was bound that I should work all the time. But at last I told him that I was going to have every Sat.u.r.day afternoon off, especially in summer, so I could go home or out upon the river.

Can you row?" she suddenly asked.

"A little," was the reply.

"That's good. Now, look, I'm going to take you out in the boat next Sat.u.r.day, and you're going to meet somebody there you'll like."

"Somebody I like," David repeated. "Who is it?"

"It's a woman, that's who it is. But I'm not going to tell you her name. She only came here last week, and she is so fond of the water, and spends so much time upon it. Oh, you'll like her when you see her.

She's a beauty, with such lovely eyes and dark hair. And she's not a bit stuck up, either. She just talks in a friendly way, and makes you feel easy all over. There, now, I guess you'd better pile some more wood. I have a bit of work to do, and when I'm through I'll come out and give you a hand. I like to be with you. I know we're going to be friends."

The girl rose, and was about to leave. She paused, however, and looked inquiringly into the old man's face.

"Do you smoke?" she asked.

Into David's eyes came an eager expression, which Betty was not slow to see.

"I know you do," she cried, "but you have no tobacco."

"I have a pipe," and David fumbled into a pocket of his coat. "But I haven't had a smoke for weeks, because----"

"I know, I know," the girl hastily replied. "I'll get you some in a jiffy."

She was gone only a short time when she returned, and handed David half a fig of tobacco.

"There, take that," she said. "It's a piece Jim left on the kitchen window-sill."

"But is it right for me to take it?" David asked.

"Sure it's right. Didn't Jim agree to feed and lodge you for one year?

You can't live without tobacco. It's a part of your food, see? If Jim says anything about it, I'll soon settle him."

"You are a good girl," David returned, as with trembling hands he hastily whittled off a few slices of tobacco with an old knife, and filled his pipe. "This will put new life into me. I can never repay you for your kindness."

CHAPTER III

ONE, AT LEAST, RINGS TRUE

With the small boat pulled well upon the beach, Lois Sinclair stood for a few moments looking out over the water. Her eyes were fixed upon a little boat in the distance containing two people, an old man and a young girl. The wind, which was steadily increasing, tossed her wavy, luxuriant hair over her brow, while several tresses fell across her cheeks, flushed by the recent rowing. She knew that she should be home, for supper would be waiting and her father would be impatient.

But she hesitated. Her thoughts were out there on the water where she loved to be. The tw.a.n.g of the wind as it swept through the trees along the sh.o.r.e, and the beat of the surf upon the gravelly beach were music sweet to her ears.

At length, with one more lingering glance out upon the river, she turned and walked along a path leading from the sh.o.r.e. She moved slowly, for she was not at all anxious to reach the house situated about two hundred yards beyond. And yet it was an attractive house, well-built, and cosy in appearance, designed both for summer and winter use. A s.p.a.cious verandah swept the front and ends, over which clambered a luxuriant growth of wild grape vines. Large trees of ash, elm, and maple spread their expansive branches over the well-kept lawn, providing an excellent shade when the sun was hot. Altogether, it was a most delightful spot to spend the summer months away from the smoke and confusion of the city.

The place, however, did not altogether appeal to Lois Sinclair. If she had needed rest, the situation would have been ideal. But it was activity she desired, and not luxurious ease such as so many crave, especially two young men lolling on the verandah awaiting her coming.

Even though one was her brother, she could not restrain a feeling of contempt as she looked upon their white faces, soft hands, and immaculate clothes. Why should men, she asked herself, be so ready and willing to give themselves completely up to effeminate habits when their blood was hot within them, and the great Open was calling them with such a strong insistent voice?

The young woman's arrival brought one of the young men to his feet, with the offer of a hammock.

"Please do not trouble yourself," she told him. "I must hurry and get ready for dinner. I know that father is very angry with me."

"He is not the only one who is angry, I can a.s.sure you," Sammie Dingle remarked. "We have been furious with you for leaving us this afternoon when we needed your company so much in the car. I cannot understand how you can enjoy yourself alone out on the river in that nasty boat."

"No, I suppose you cannot," Lois replied, and so infatuated was Sammie with the young woman that he did not notice the slightest sarcasm in her words.

"Hurry up, Lois," her brother ordered, "I'm almost starved. Dad's got it in for you."

"All right, d.i.c.k," was her reply. "I shall be down in a few minutes.

Why did you wait for me? You had better go to dinner at once, if you are so hungry."

It took Lois but a short time upstairs, and when she came down she found the three men in the dining-room. Her father was in one of his surly moods, and this she could tell at the first glance. He was a short man, somewhat stout, and pompous both in appearance and manner.

Fortunate it was that his only daughter had inherited none of his qualities, but was more like her mother, whose memory she cherished with undying affection. Since her death home had been more of a prison to her than anything else. Neither her father nor her only brother had understood her, and she was forced to depend more and more upon her own reliant self.

"What kept you so late, Lois?" her father asked as soon as she had taken her place at the table. "You know very well that I do not like to wait for dinner."

"I am very sorry, father," was the reply, "but I became so greatly interested in an old man and a girl out on the river that I had no idea how time was pa.s.sing."

"Who were they, Lois?" her brother enquired.