“Yes,” said Kenny wincing.  “She’s younger than Brian.”  Where had he read that youth was cruel?  “Yes, I could have been her father.”

“I don’t mean you’re old,” stammered Don, flushing.  “I mean—­Oh, Mr. O’Neill—­” and now Don slipped back into childhood for a second and sobbed aloud—­“I—­I don’t know what I mean.  You just—­just mustn’t blame her.  She’s my sister.  She even patched my clothes.”

“I’m not blaming her, Don.  God knows I’m not.  I’m just wonderin’.”

“Joan’s going to marry you just the same.  She said so.  Mr. O’Neill, you’ve got to do something.  You—­you’ve got to!” He clenched his hands and bolted for the door.

“Yes,” said Kenny, frowning, “I—­I’ve got to do something.  I can’t—­think—­what.  Where’s Joan?”

“I think she’s gone to the cabin.  She often went there when Uncle made her cry.  Mr. O’Neill,” Don clenched one hand and struck it fiercely against the palm of the other, “you’ve been good to me.  I—­I’m awful sorry—­”

He fled with a sob and Kenny put his hand to his throat to still a painful throbbing.

There was a clanking in his ears.  Or was it in his memory?  Ah, yes, Adam had said that life was a link in a chain that clanks, and he couldn’t escape.  Well, he hadn’t.

Kenny sat down, conscious of a tired irresolution in his head and a numbness.  Nothing seemed clearly defined, save somewhere within him a monumental sharpness as of pain.  Joan’s happiness he remembered must be the religion of his love.

After that things blurred—­curiously.  Superstition, ordinarily within him but an artificial twist of fancy, reared a mocking head and reminded him of omens.  Sailing over the river long ago he had thought of Hy Brazil, the Isle of Delight that receded always when you followed.  Receded!  It was very true.  Later the wind among the blossoms had been chill and fitful and Joan had been unaware of the romance in the white, sweet drift.  Omens!  And rain had come, the blossom storm.  And Death had spread its sable wing over the first day of his love.  He shuddered and closed his eyes.

Separate thoughts rose quiveringly from the blur.  He thought of a lantern and Samhain.  Samhain, the summer-ending of the druids!  Perhaps this was the summer ending of his youth and hope.  And he had drank in Adam’s room that Samhain night to Destiny—­Destiny who had brought him—­this!

Still the blur and the separate thoughts stinging into his consciousness like poisoned arrows.  Whitaker’s voice, persistent and analytical, rang in his ears.  The King of Youth!  Kenny laughed aloud and tears stung at his eyes.  He blinked and laughed again.  Why, he was growing up all at once!  John would be pleased.  Thoughts of Whitaker, Brian, his farcical penance and Joan, became a brilliant phantasmagoria from which for an interval nothing emerged separate or distinct.  Then sharp and clear came the dread of Brian’s