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Miss Cynthia flung the last sentence at Mrs. John Joe rather defiantly, not liking the expression on that lady’s face.

“I suppose nobody could expect more, Cynthy,” said Mrs. John Joe deprecatingly. “He would be an awful bother, I’ve no doubt, and you’ve lived alone so long with no one to worry you that you wouldn’t know what to do with him. Boys are always getting into mischief–my four just keep me on the dead jump. Still, it’s a pity for him, poor little fellow! No mother or father–it seems hard.”

Miss Cynthia’s face grew grimmer than ever as she went to the door with her callers and watched them down the garden path. As soon as Mrs. John Joe saw that the door was shut, she unburdened her mind to her daughter.

“Did you ever hear tell of the like? I thought I knew Cynthia Henderson well, if anybody in Wilmot did, but this beats me. Just think, Kitty–there she is, no one knows how rich, and not a soul in the world belonging to her, and she won’t even take in her brother’s child. She must be a hard woman. But it’s just meanness, pure and simple; she grudges him what he’d eat and wear. The poor mite doesn’t look as if he’d need much. Cynthia didn’t used to be like that, but it’s growing on her every day. She’s got hard as rocks.”

That afternoon Miss Cynthia harnessed her fat grey pony into the phaeton herself–she kept neither man nor maid, but lived in her big, immaculate house in solitary state–and drove away down the dusty, buttercup-bordered road, leaving Wilbur sitting on the verandah. She returned in an hour’s time and drove into the yard, shutting the gate behind her with a vigorous snap. Wilbur was not in sight and, fearful lest he should be in mischief, she hurriedly tied the pony to the railing and went in search of him. She found him sitting by the well, his chin in his hands; he was pale and his eyes were red. Miss Cynthia hardened her heart and took him into the house.

“I’ve been down to see Mr. Robins this afternoon, Wilbur,” she said, pretending to brush some invisible dust from the bottom of her nice black cashmere skirt for an excuse to avoid looking at him, “and he’s agreed to take you on trial. It’s a real good chance–better than you could expect. He says he’ll board and clothe you and let you go to school in the winter.”

The boy seemed to shrink.

“Daddy said that I would stay with you,” he said wistfully. “He said you were so good and kind and would love me for his sake.”

For a moment Miss Cynthia softened. She had been very fond of her stepbrother; it seemed that his voice appealed to her across the grave in behalf of his child. But the crust of years was not to be so easily broken.

“Your father meant that I would look after you,” she said, “and I mean to, but I can’t afford to keep you here. You’ll have a good place at Mr. Robins’, if you behave yourself. I’m going to take you down now, before I unharness the pony, so go and wash your face while I put up your things. Don’t look so woebegone, for pity’s sake! I’m not taking you to prison.”

Wilbur turned and went silently to the kitchen. Miss Cynthia thought she heard a sob. She went with a firm step into the little bedroom off the hall and took a purse out of a drawer.

“I s’pose I ought,” she said doubtfully. “I don’t s’pose he has a cent. I daresay he’ll lose or waste it.”

She counted out seventy-five cents carefully. When she came out, Wilbur was at the door. She put the money awkwardly into his hand.

“There, see that you don’t spend it on any foolishness.”

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