“But where did you eat?” asked Molly gently.
The melting sympathy in her eyes and voice encouraged the old man to pour out his woes. Evidently it was a great relief to him to talk after his miseries and hardships.
“I’ve been living off apples,” he said. “Very fine apples. There was a big basket of them on Edwin’s study table.”
“But there’s an inn in the village,” she exclaimed.
He smiled grimly.
“I have come all the way from Caracas to Wellington,” he said. “I was poor when I started; yes, miserably, wretchedly poor. I am an old man, old and broken. I want peace, do you understand? Peace.”
They had reached the lake and in fifteen minutes would arrive at the Quadrangle. Mr. Blount was leading the way, occasionally hitting the ground savagely with his cane.
Molly thrust her hand into her blouse and drew out a chamois skin bag which hung by a silk tape around her neck. Since the pilfering had been going on at Wellington she carried what little money she had with her during the day and hid it under her pillow at night.
Extracting ten dollars from the bag, she hurried to the old man’s side and touched him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Blount, I’m under great obligations to your cousin. He has been very kind to me—always—and I’d like you to—I’d——”