be so glad to listen. About your life and your friends back in the—in the happier days."
"I am afraid there is not much to talk about—that you would care to hear," he said gravely.
The white forehead puckered daintily in pretended severity and rebuke.
"Oh, yes; there is," she said. "Your name—it is such a curious name. How did they come to call you Varge, and what does it mean?"
"I do not know what it means," Varge answered, his quick, sensitive smile upon his lips. "I am afraid it does not really mean anything—a word of babyhood coinage for something perhaps. They said it was the only word in my vocabulary when they found me, and so they called me—Varge. I was left at the door of a foundling home, you—"
"Yes," she said softly; "I knew that. But was there nothing, no mark on your clothes, no message, no little trinket—nothing that would—"
Varge shook his head.
"There was nothing."
"And nothing has come with the years? No clue to your identity? Surely you have tried to find out who you were."
The trowel in Varge's hand grated against the rim of the pot as he loosened the earth, and the massive, splendid head bent forward for an instant suddenly—then he straightened and looked up at her, the calm brown eyes, the whole strong, rugged beauty of his face mellowed with a wistful tenderness.
"Once," he said, in low tones, "the dearest wish I had was to know—my mother."
