Lottie had believed that in the pines her echo lived, and Janice could almost hear now the childish wail of the little one as she shouted, "He-a! he-a! he-a!" to the mysterious sprite that dwelt in the pines and mocked her with its voice. Blind and very deaf, Lottie had been wont to run fearlessly out upon the broken dock and "play with her echo," as she called it. A wave of pity swept over Janice's mind and heart. Suppose Lottie should again completely lose the boon of sight. What would become of her as she grew into girlhood and womanhood?
"Poor little dear! I almost fear for Hopewell to come home and tell us what the doctors say," sighed Janice.
Then, even more tender memories associated with the old wharf filled Janice Day's thought. On it, in the afterglow of a certain sunset, Nelson Haley had told her how the college at Millhampton had invited him to join its faculty, and he had asked her if she approved of his course in Polktown.
It had been decided between them that Polktown was a better field for his efforts in his chosen profession for the present—as the college appointment would remain open to him—and Janice was proud to think that meanwhile he had built the Polktown school up, and had succeeded so well. This spot was the scene of their first really serious talk.
She wondered now if her advice had been wise, after all. Suppose
Nelson had gone to Millhampton immediately when he was called there?
He would have escaped this awful accusation that had been brought
against him—that was sure.
His situation now was most unfortunate. Having requested a vacation from his school, he was receiving no pay all these weeks that he was idle. And Janice knew the young man could ill afford this. He had been of inestimable help to Mr. Middler and the other men who had charge of the campaign for prohibition that was moving on so grandly in Polktown. But that work could not be paid for.
Janice believed Nelson was now nearly penniless. His situation troubled her mind almost as much as that of her father in Mexico.
She went on along the shore to the northward, toward the little group of houses at the foot of the bluff, in one of which the Narnays lived.
There were the children grouped together at one end of the rickety front porch. Their mother sat on the stoop, rocking herself to and fro with the sickly baby across her lean knees, her face hopeless, her figure slouched forward and uncouth to look at.
A more miserable looking party Janice Day had never before seen. And the reason for it was quickly explained to her. At the far end of the porch lay Narnay, on his back in the sun, his mouth open, the flies buzzing around his red face, sleeping off—it was evident—the night's debauch.