pt a bewildered silence.

"What you been lying about?" the woman exclaimed, advancing upon the
curate, her eyes blazing.

"I have been telling," he answered, still gravely smiling, "the truth."

Her anger was halted--but she was not pacified.

"Telling," the curate repeated, with a little pause, "the truth."

"You been talking about _me_, eh?"

"No; it was of your late husband."

She started.

"I am a curate of the Church of the Lifted Cross," the curate
continued, with unruffled composure, "and I have been telling the exact
truth concerning----"

"You been lying!" the woman broke in. "Yes, you have!"

"No--not so," he insisted. "The exact truth concerning the funeral of
Dick Slade from the Church of the Lilted Cross. Your son has told me
of his father's death--of the funeral, And I have told your son that I
distinctly remember the occasion. I have told him, moreover," he
added, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder, his eyes faintly
twinkling, "that his father was--ah--as I recall him--of most
distinguished appearance."

She was completely disarmed.

When, after an agreeable interval, the Rev. John Fithian took his
leave, the boy's mother followed him from the room, and closed the door
upon the boy. "I'm glad," she faltered, "that you didn't give me away.
It was--kind. But I'm sorry you lied--like that. You didn't have to,
you know. He's only a child. It's easy to fool him. _You_ wouldn't
have to lie. But I _got_ to lie. It makes him happy--and there's
things he mustn't know. He _must_ be happy. I can't stand it when he
ain't. It hurts me so. But," she added, looking straight into his
eyes, gratefully, "you didn't have to lie. And--it was kind." Her
eyes fell. "It was--awful kind."

"I may come again?"

She stared at the floor. "Come again?" she muttered. "I don't know."

"I should very much like to come."

"What do you want?" she asked, looking up. "It ain't _me_, is it?"

The curate shook his head.

"Well, what do you want? I thought you was from the Society. I
thought you was an agent come to take him away because I wasn't fit to
keep him. But it ain't that. And it ain't _me_. What is it you want,
anyhow?"

"To come again."

She turned away. He patiently waited. All at once she looked into his
eyes, long, deep, intensely--a scrutiny of his very soul.

"You got a good name to keep, ain't you?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered. "And you?"

"It don't matter ab