Could he have seen the poor girl, when at last, conscious of solitude and darkness, she gave way to the passionate grief that, for her mother’s sake, she had so long repressed, he would have felt that she was distant indeed—­far removed by experiences of which he as yet knew nothing.  She had been gazing southward, toward the city in which her father was vainly seeking a foothold on the steep incline up which the unfortunate must struggle, and in fancy she saw him lonely, dejected, and deprived of the family life of which he was so fond.  Her sympathy for him was as deep as her strong affection.  But in spite of her will her thoughts would recur to the beautiful dream which had been shattered in that distant city.  Not a word had she heard from Arnold since leaving it, and her heart so misgave her concerning the future that she threw herself on the sod, sobbing bitterly, and almost wishing that she were beneath it and at rest.  In the deep abstraction of her grief she had scarcely noted the lapse of time, nor where she was, and the moon had risen when she again glided by Roger, her step and bearing suggesting lassitude and dejection.

Soon after he entered the sitting-room, where he found his mother with a troubled look on her face.  “Roger,” she said, “I feel sorry for these people.  When I went upstairs a while ago I heard Mrs. Jocelyn crying in her room, and coming down with the lamp I met the young lady on the stairs, and her eyes were very red.  It’s certain they are in deep trouble.  What can it be?  It’s queer Mr. Jocelyn doesn’t come to see them.  I hope they are all right.”

“Mother,” he burst out impetuously, “they are all right—­she is, anyway,” and he went abruptly to his room.

“Well,” remarked the bewildered woman sententiously, “there never were such goings on in the old house before.”

An event momentous to her had indeed taken place—­Roger’s boyish days were over.

CHAPTER IX

NEITHER BOY NOR MAN

The two following weeks passed uneventfully at the farmhouse, but silent forces were at work that were as quiet and effective as those of Nature, who makes her vital changes without ever being observed in the act.  In respect to the domestic arrangements Mrs. Atwood effected a sensible compromise.  She gave the men-folk an early breakfast in the kitchen, so that they might go to their work as usual, and her boarders were thus not compelled to rise at an unaccustomed hour.  She and Susan afterward sat down with them, and Mr. Atwood and Roger joined them at dinner and supper.  On the Monday following the scenes described in the last chapter, Mildred and Mrs. Jocelyn were listless and unable to recover even the semblance of cheerfulness, for a letter from Mr. Jocelyn informed them that he was making very little headway, and that some agencies which he accepted yielded but a scanty income.  Mildred chafed more bitterly than ever