opposite her. For awhile neither spoke, then Eva looked up and said—
"Would you mind telling me about yourself since that dreadful evening you had to leave pa's office?"
"If you care to hear it, though I fear it would be a very uninteresting story."
"I should like to hear it very much, for I have often wondered what could have become of you."
"I should not have kept silence all these years if I had thought any one cared to know what had become of me, but I supposed that I should best please those who had known me by keeping out of their sight."
"You were mistaken in that, I am sure; but never mind now, I am all curiosity to hear your story."
Benny could not resist this request, so he gave her an outline of what we have given in greater detail, making as little as possible, however, of his sufferings and privations, and dwelling at length, and with much feeling, on the kindness of his friends at the farm. Of his inner life he said nothing. His religious experience seemed too deep for words, too sacred for parade, and he had not framed an experience yet to use on public occasions, and he preferred also that his actions, rather than his words, should reveal his religious life.
Eva listened with great attention, and her quick imagination supplied what she felt he had left out. For awhile there was silence after Benny had told his story, save for the clear river that babbled down underneath the
