mother's love," he said with simple earnestness—"Mrs. Merton—and, as I grew older and understood, filled me with the hope to be worthy of my own mother when I should find her. So then, I had two ambitions—that and"—Varge had risen suddenly and was speaking almost eagerly now, looking into the sweet face that seemed so winningly to bid him open his heart—"that, and to procure the means that would enable me to search. The thought of who I was, my identity, was rarely out of my mind. I began to study medicine, not only because no other opportunity seemed to offer, but because, too, I loved the work. I did not think then to stay so long in Berley Falls. I meant to make a beginning there, and then perhaps work through college. But the years passed on and in those years the doctor and Mrs. Merton were as father and mother to me, and there came conditions that I could not—"
Varge stopped suddenly. What glaring incongruity was he leading to! The clear, fathomless blue eyes seemed to be reading his very soul. With a quick, outflung gesture of his hands, he turned from her to his work.
"Yes?"—the single word came to him low-breathed, a world of sympathy in the voice.
Varge shook his head, but did not look at her.
"Won't you go on?" she pleaded gently. "I would like to know the rest."
He was on his knees once more over the plants.
"There is no more," he said hoarsely, still keeping his face averted. "The rest is—ruin, wreckage and disaster."
He worked on, but his movements were mechanical—
