"At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. " "Nonsense," returned Jonathan gruffly. “Anyway, enough about that. She walked back to the car. Thank you for the books. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. “Vee,” she said, “come home. But why do you ask?" "Because—" stammered the boy. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.
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