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only, of course, you’ve nothing to get out of me. That saves people often.”

“Tony!” Alison was too hurt to continue for a moment. She gazed at the small cynic in bed, who, extremely ashamed of himself though he was, hardened his heart and stared back at her. Then pity, never far from Alison’s soft heart, welled up and overflowed as she thought what life must have been to have taught a child such lessons. She said, after a little pause, very gently and slowly:

“You don’t really believe that, Tony. And listen to me. Even if your experience of life has shown you that people are often very selfish, very cruel, very ready to ‘do’ other people, don’t let it colour all your point of view. It is very much better and wiser and happier to go on believing in everybody than expecting always to find people false. People are often so much kinder and nicer than you think; and even if you are hurt and taken in a thousand times, anything is better than suspecting your friends. Suspicion kills everything that makes life beautiful, Tony.”

Tony had no reply to make to this, and the conversation was never referred to again, but the boy remembered it all his life; at unexpected times it would come back to him. Unwillingly he was convinced; he would have been a fool, a bad judge of character—and Heaven knew it was important enough for him to be a good one!—if he had continued to doubt the Straines.

It was some time after this that he, in a rarely expansive moment, unfolded most of his story to Alison. He told her more than he had ever told anyone—more than he had meant to tell; but somehow it was easy to talk, once he had made the start, and Alison was the best of listeners. He had never talked so much about himself before, and paid really very little heed to the cager listener beside him; but afterwards he recalled how her eyes had darkened with anger at the recital of his father’s treatment—grown dewy