"You have many friends," said Anne, her eyes fixed upon the hues of the western sky.
"As you see them. The people here are examples of my friends."
"You must have others who are nearer."
"No, no one. I have never had a home." He looked up as he said this, and met her eyes, withdrawn for a moment from the sunset; they expressed so much pity that he felt ashamed of himself. For his entire freedom from home ties was almost the only thing for which he had felt profoundly grateful in his idle life. Other boys had been obliged to bend to the paternal will; other fellows had not been able to wander over the world and enjoy themselves as he had wandered and enjoyed. But—he could not help going on now.
"I pretend to be indifferent, and all that. No doubt I succeed in appearing so—that is, to the outside world. But there come moments when I would give anything for some firm belief to anchor myself to, something higher and better than I am." (The tunnel was very near the ants now.) "I believe, Miss Douglas, I can not help believing, that you could tell me what that is."
"Oh no; I am very ignorant," said Anne, hurriedly, returning to the sunset with heightened color.
"But you believe. I will never make a spectacle of myself; I will never ask the conventional questions of conventional good people, whom I hate. You might influence me—But what right have I to ask you, Anne? Why should I think that you would care?"
"I do care," said the low voice, after a moment, as if forced to answer.
"Then help me."
"How can I help you?"