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 readiness to appreciate and love the good work of others. He has a great understanding and love of art."

"Poor father!" said Helge.

"Yes"—Jenny nestled closer to him—"your father is perhaps more to be pitied than you or I understand."

They kissed—and forgot to speak any more of Gert Gram.

"Your people don't know about it yet?" Helge asked.

"No," said Jenny.

"At first, when I was sending all my letters to your home address, did your mother never ask who wrote to you like that every day?"

"No. My mother is not that kind."

"My mother," repeated Helge hotly. "You mean to say that mother would have done so—that she is tactless. I don't think you are just to my mother—surely, for my sake, you ought not to speak like that of her."

"Helge! What do you mean?" Jenny looked at him, astonished. "I have not said a word about your mother."

"You said, my mother is not like that."

"I did not. I said my mother."

"No; you said my mother. You may not like her—although I cannot see what reason you have so far not to—but you should remember that you speak about my mother, and that I am fond of her as she is."

"Oh, Helge! I don't understand how.…" She stopped, as she felt tears filling her eyes. It was so strange a thing for Jenny Winge to shed tears that she felt ashamed of it, and was quiet.

But he had seen it: "Jenny, my darling, have I hurt you? Oh, my own girl—what a misery it is! You can see for yourself—no sooner have I come back, but it begins again." He clenched his hands and cried: "I hate it—I hate my home!"