curtain
called to him. She touched him subtly and drew his attention--and he
followed her a minute... then his attention wandered and he gazed at
the deep folds in the curtain with troubled eyes. She hesitated a
moment--and her hand trembled. It was as if the curtain were calling
her, too, and she moved toward it, the boy beside her.... They did not
speak--they moved blindly and paused a breath... the rain falling on the
skylight. The boy flashed a smile to her. "I have not see it," he said.

She reached out her hand then and drew back the curtain. "It is
Betty--my little girl--" she said, "she has gone away--" She was talking
aimlessly--to steady her hands. But the boy did not hear her--he had
stumbled a little--and his eyes were on the picture--searching the
roguish smile, the wide eyes, the straight, true little figure that
seemed stepping toward them--out from behind the curtain.... The
mother's eyes feasted on it a moment hungrily and she turned to the boy.
But he did not see--his gaze was on the picture--and he took a step--and
looked--and drew his hand across his eyes with a little breath. Then he
reached out his hands, "--I--see--her," he said swiftly. "She look at
me--on ground--she cry--" His face worked a minute--then it grew quiet
and he turned it toward her. "I see--her," he repeated slowly.

She had seized his shoulder and was questioning him, forcing him toward
the picture, calling the words into his ear as if he were deaf, or far
away--and the boy responded slowly--truly, each word lighting up the
scene for her--the great car crashing upon him, the overthrow of his
cart, the scattered fruit on the ground, and the Greek boy crawling
toward it--thrust forward as the car pushed by--and his swift, upward
glance of the girl's face as it flashed past, and of the men holding her
between them--"She cry," he said--as if he saw the vision again before
him. "She cry--and they stop--hands." He placed both hands across his
mouth, shutting out words and cry.

And the mother fondled him and cried to him and questioned him again.
_She_ had no fear--no knowledge of what might hang in the balance--of
the delicate grey matter that trembled at her strokes... no surgeon
would have dared question so sternly, so unsparingly. But the delicate
brain held itself steady and the boy's eyes were turned to her--piecing
her broken words, answering them before they came--as if she drew them
forth at will--

The door opened and she