k dress with many folds and flounces and fine ruching at neck
and wrists.

He thought she was taking one of those naps which are the prerogative of
age at any hour, and began to tiptoe away. But she started and sat
upright, her face turned toward him.

"Who is it?" she asked. "But I know. You are Mr. Quentin, of course. I
am Jonathan's mother." She smiled.

But something was wrong with that smile. It seemed incomplete.

"You may come in."

She held out a hand. David advanced and took it. She caught his in both
of hers, in a soft lingering clasp.

She smiled again. "It is a good strong hand. You are quite tall, aren't
you?"

"Almost six feet."

"And broad, too?"

"Rather, I believe."

He tried to speak lightly, but a hard lump was gathering in his throat.
For he knew what was wrong with that smile. She was blind.

"I am glad of that." She nodded brightly. "I am very fond of large men.
It has been my cross that Jonathan took his size from me and not from his
father. I could walk under his arm and not even graze his sleeve."

She drew him down beside her.

"Do you mind if I touch your face?"

"It isn't much of a face, you know." But that lump was very stubborn.

She reached up and passed both hands over his face, a light caressing
touch he scarcely felt.

"Now," she smiled, "I see you. You are quite mistaken. It is a good
true face and I like it very much. Ah!" She had touched his lashes.
"You are feeling sorry for me. But you must not," she chided gently. "I
don't like people to be sorry for me."

To that David had no answer. But on an impulse--or it may have been an
inspiration--as the little hands left his face, he brushed one lightly
with his lips.

She beamed--always with that pathetic lack--just as Jonathan did when
something pleased him.

"That was very pretty." She nodded again. "I see I am to like
Jonathan's new friend very much. You know, you have quite won him. He
talks of you all the time. You like him, do you not?" The smile had
become quite wistful.

"Better all the time," David answered promptly and with truth.

"I am glad of that. And it is good of you to come here. We have so few
visitors--I suppose," she sighed, "because we aren't very interesting. I
am afraid Jonathan gets very lonely sometimes, having to spend most of
his evenings here with no one but me. Not," she made haste to add, "that
he isn't always good to me."

"I think he is good to