the hazel ones in the dim light, and noted that a curiously long
look was exchanged--the sort of look which denotes that two people
are observing each other closely, without attempt at producing an
impression, only at discovering what is there.

But when Burns began to talk he appeared to address the midsummer night
air, staring off into it and speaking rather low, so that they all
leaned forward to listen. For, at last, he seemed to have something
other than motor cars upon his mind.

"He's a mighty taking little chap," he said musingly. "Curly black hair,
eyes like coals--with a fringe around 'em like a hedge. Cheeks none too
round--but milk and eggs and good red steaks will take care of that. A
body like a cherubs--when it's filled out a bit."

"What in the name of gibberish are you giving as, Red?" inquired
Macauley.

"Name's Bob," went on Red Pepper. "By all the odd chances! That's what
decided me. 'Bobby Burns'--it was the last straw!"

"Is he crazy?" asked Chester of the company. They seemed undecided. They
were listening closely.

"Clothes--one pair of patched breeches--remember 'Little Breeches,'
Ches?--one faded flannel shirt--mended till there wasn't much left to
mend. A straw hat with a fringe around it--uneven fringe. Inside--a
heartache as big as a little fellow could carry and stagger under it.
Think of having the heartache--at five and for your grandmother!"

"Why for his grandmother?" asked Winifred Chester.

"Because there wasn't anybody else to have it for. Rest all gone,
grandmother the one who attended the breeches and patched the shirt, and
went without food herself lest the boy's cheeks get thinner yet. That
was what fixed her at last--she hadn't enough vitality to pull her
through."

"So that was the matter with you to-day," hazarded Chester. "Worried
about your patient all day and found you'd lost her when you got back?"

Burns turned upon him with a characteristic flash. "You go join the
ranks of the snap-shots. They sometimes miss fire. No, I didn't. I'd
lost her before I went or I wouldn't have gone, not for you or any other
box-party. It was the kiddie that was on my mind--as I'd seen him last."

"Where is he now?" asked Martha Macauley urgently. She was the mother of
two small sons, and Burns's sketch had interested her.

He looked up at her. "Want to see him?"

"Of course I do. Did you take him to somebody in town? Are you going to
send him to the asylum in the city?"

"Do