r. With Bertha Keys she felt soothed, sympathised
with, restored to a good deal of her former calm. By slow degrees she
told Bertha almost all of her history; in particular she consulted with
Bertha on the subject of an heir.

"I must leave my money to someone," she said; "I hate the idea of giving
it to charities. Charity, in my opinion, begins at home."

"That is does, truly," answered Bertha, her queer green-grey eyes fixed
on her employer's face.

"And Florence Aylmer being completely out of the question," continued
Mrs. Aylmer, "and Florence's mother being about the biggest fool that
ever breathed, I must look in another direction for my heir."

"Why not adopt a boy?" said Bertha, on one of these occasions.

"Adopt a boy? a boy?"

"Well, a young man," said Bertha, colouring.

"What a very extraordinary idea!" was Mrs. Aylmer's response. She looked
withering things at Bertha, and this young lady found herself more or
less in disgrace for the next few days. Nevertheless, the idea took
root. Mrs. Aylmer, having found girls failures, began to think that all
that was desirable might be encompassed in the person of a boy.

"It would be nice to have a boy about the house. They were cheerful
creatures. As they grew to be men, they were more or less a protection.
Boys, of course, had none of the small ways of girls. A deceitful boy
was a creature almost unknown."

So Mrs. Aylmer thought, and she began to look around for a suitable boy
to adopt and leave her money to. No sooner did she seriously contemplate
this idea than the opportunity to adopt a very special boy occurred to
her. She had an old friend, a great friend, a woman whom as a girl she
had really loved. This woman was now a widow: she was a certain Mrs.
Trevor. She had married an army man, who had died gloriously in battle.
He had won his V. C. before he departed to a better world. His widow had
a small pension, and one son. Mrs. Trevor happened just about this very
time to write to Mrs. Aylmer. She told her of her great and abiding
sorrow, and spoke with the deepest delight and admiration of her boy.

"Send Maurice to spend a week with me," was Mrs. Aylmer's telegraphic
reply to this epistle.

In some astonishment, Mrs. Trevor packed up her boy's things--he was a
lad of eighteen at this time--and sent him off to visit Mrs. Aylmer in
her beautiful country place.

Maurice Trevor was frank, innocent, open as the day. He pleased the
widow because he did