ecause the
angry tears were still blinding him, and the horse-trader fell back into
his star-gazing.

"Law, law," he mused; "'the horrible pit an' the miry clay.' What a
sufferin' pity it is we pore sinners cayn't dance a little now and ag'in
'thout havin' to walk right up and pay the fiddler! Tom-Jeff, there,
now, he's a-thinkin' the price is toler'ble high; and I don't know but
it is--I don't know but what it is."

The dinner at Woodlawn that night was a stiff and comfortless meal, as
it had come to be with the taking on of four-tined forks and the other
conventions for which an oak-paneled dining-room in an ornate brick
mansion sets the pace. Caleb Gordon was fathoms deep in the mechanical
problems of the day's work, as was his wont. Silas Crafts was abstracted
and silent. Tom's food choked him, as it had need under the sharp stress
of things; and the convalescent housemother remained at table only long
enough to pour the coffee.

Tom excused himself a few minutes later, and followed his mother to her
room, climbing the stair to her door, leaden-footed and with his heart
ready to burst.

"Is that you, Thomas?" said the gentle voice within, answering his tap
on the panel. "Come in, son; come in and sit by my fire. It's right
chilly to-night."

Thomas Jefferson entered and placed his chair so that she could not see
him without turning, and for many minutes the silence was unbroken. Then
he began, as begin he must, sometime and in some way.

"Mammy," he said, feeling unconsciously for the childish phrase, "Mammy,
has Uncle Silas been telling you anything about me?"

She gave a little nod of assent.

"Something, Thomas, but not a great deal. You have had some trouble with
Doctor Tollivar?"

"Yes."

"I have known that for some little time. Your uncle might have told me
more, but I wouldn't let him. There has never been anything between us
to break confidence, Tom. I knew you would tell me yourself, when the
time came."

"I have come to tell you to-night, mammy. You must hear it all, from
beginning to end. It goes back a long way--back to the time when you
used to let me kneel with my head in your lap to say my prayers; when
you used to think I was good...."

The fire had died down to a few glowing masses of coke on the grate bars
when he had finished the story of his wanderings in the valley of dry
bones. Through it all, Martha Gordon had sat silent and rigid, her thin
hands lying clasped in her lap, and