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 mischief was done. And Leslie—what of Leslie? It was for Leslie Anne felt most concerned.

“Does Leslie know this, Mr. Ford?” she asked quietly.

“No—no,—unless she has guessed it. You surely don’t think I’d be cad and scoundrel enough to tell her, Mrs. Blythe. I couldn’t help loving her—that’s all—and my misery is greater than I can bear.”

“Does she care?” asked Anne. The moment the question crossed her lips she felt that she should not have asked it. Owen Ford answered it with overeager protest.

“No—no, of course not. But I could make her care if she were free—I know I could.”

“She does care—and he knows it,” thought Anne. Aloud she said, sympathetically but decidedly:

“But she is not free, Mr. Ford. And the only thing you can do is to go away in silence and leave her to her own life.”

“I know—I know,” groaned Owen. He sat down on the grassy bank and stared moodily into the amber water beneath him. “I know there’s nothing to do—nothing but to say conventionally, ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Moore. Thank you for all your kindness to me this summer,’ just as I would have said it to the sonsy, bustling, keen-eyed housewife I expected her to be when I came. Then I’ll pay my board money like any honest boarder and go! Oh, it’s very simple. No