Roberta experienced a sudden strange leap of the heart as she saw that the supple figure of the man was Richard Kendrick’s own, and that the slight frame he bore was that of a crippled child.  She could see now the iron braces on the legs, like pipe stems, which stuck straight out from the embrace of the strong young arm which held them.  She could discern clearly the pallor and emaciation of the small face, in pitiful contrast to the ruggedly healthy one of the child’s bearer.  Fascinatedly she watched as Richard set his burden carefully down upon the grass, close to the edge of the pool, the boy’s back against a big white birch trunk.  The two were not so far below her but that she could see the expression on their faces, though she could not hear their words.

Richard ran back to the car, returning with a rug and something in a long and slender case.  He arranged a cushion behind the little back.  Roberta judged the boy to be about eight or nine years old, though small for his age, as such children are.  Richard undid the case and produced a small fishing-rod, which he fell to preparing for use, talking gayly as he did so, watched eagerly by his youthful companion.  Evidently the boy was to have a great and unaccustomed pleasure.

Well, it was certainly in line with that which Roberta had heard of this young man, but somehow to see something of it with her own eyes was singularly more convincing.  She could not bring herself to get up and go away—­surely there could be no need to feel that she was spying if she stayed to watch the interesting scene.  If Richard had chosen a spot which he fancied entirely secluded from observation, it was undoubtedly wholly on the boy’s own account.  She could easily imagine how such a child as this one would shrink from observation in a public place, particularly when he was to try the dearly imagined but wholly unknown delight of fishing.  It was plain that he was very shy, even with this kind friend, for it was only now and then that he replied in words to Richard’s talk, though the response in the white face and big black eyes was eloquent enough.

It seemed in every way remarkable that a young man of Richard Kendrick’s sort should devote himself to a poor and crippled child as he was doing now.  Not a gesture or act of his was lost upon the girl who watched.  Clearly he was taking all possible pains to please and interest his little protege, and he was doing it in a way which showed much skill, suggesting previous practice in the art.  This was no such interest as he had shown in Gordon and Dorothy Gray, whose beauty had been so powerful an appeal to his fancy.  There was nothing about this child to take hold upon any one except his helplessness and need.  But Richard was as gentle with him, as patient with his awkward attempts at holding the light rod in the proper position for fishing, and as full of resources for entertaining him when the fish—­if there were any—­failed to bite, as he could have been with a small brother of his own.