."

"There was nothing like pretending in the transaction, mother. The
pictures were good, I paid their value and no more or less, because they
were only copies. Harry's technique is perfect, and his feeling about
color and atmosphere wonderful, but he cannot create a picture. He has
not the imagination. I am sorry for it."

"Be sorry if you like, John. I have a poor opinion of imagination,
except in religious matters. However, Harry has chosen his own way: I
don't approve of it. I won't praise him, and I won't quarrel with him.
You can do as you like. One thing is sure--he is more than good enough
for the girl he married."

"He is very fond of her and I do believe she keeps Harry straight. He
does just as she thinks best about most things."

"Does he? Then he ought to be ashamed of himself to take orders from
her. Many times he sneaked round my orders and even his father's, and
then to humble a Hatton to obey the orders of a poor Welsh girl! It's a
crying shame! It angers me, John! It would anger anyone, it would. You
can't say different, John."

"Yes, I can, mother. I assure you that Lucy is just the wife Harry
needs. And they have two fine little lads. I wish the eldest--called
Stephen after my father--was my own son. I do that!"

"Nay, my dear. There's no need for such a wish. There are sons and
daughters for Hatton, no doubt of that. Thy little Martha is very dear
to my heart."

"To mine also, mother."

"Then be thankful--and patient. I'm going upstairs to get a letter I
want posted. Will you take it to the mail for me?"

Then Mrs. Hatton left the room and John looked wistfully after her. "It
is always so," he thought. "If I name children, she goes. What does it
mean?"

He looked inquiringly into his mother's face when she returned and she
smiled cheerfully back, but it was with the face of an angry woman she
watched him to the gate, muttering words she would not have spoken had
there been anyone to hear them nearby. And John's attitude was one of
uncertain trouble. He carried himself intentionally with a lofty
bearing, but in spite of all his efforts to appear beyond care, he was
evidently in the grip of some unknown sorrow.

That it was unknown was in a large degree the core of his anxiety. He
had noticed for a long time that his mother was apparently very
unsympathetic when his wife was suffering from violent attacks of
sickness which made her physician tread softly and look grave, and that
even J