ebody say, the other day, that
mothers are born, not made. Very true, too. You see it in the little
girls nursing their dolls. I don't think anything of a she-child that
doesn't want a doll as soon as it can speak." "I always loved them,"
declared Alice casually.

He leaned forward to look at a spider's web that the silver light had
just touched, making it shine out from its background of dark leaves
and verandah post; and there was danger of rupture to the delicate
thread of the topic that was weaving so charming a conversation.
Wherefore the young lady hastened to inquire what had become of his
little son.

"I suppose," she said, "he is with his mother's people?"

Slowly resuming his attitude of repose, the guest considered the
question.

"No-o--not exactly. With a friend of his mother's, not her family.
Unfortunately, she had no family to speak of--and mine is in England.
Neither of us had a soul here who really belonged to us. That was just
the difficulty."

"It must have been a great difficulty," murmured Alice, in a feeling
tone.

"I believe you," assented Guthrie, with emphasis. "In fact, it put me
into the most ridiculous hole, the most confounded fix--one that I
can't for the life of me see my way out of; one that--However, I
mustn't talk about it to you. It's not a thing that one ought to talk
about to anybody."

And yet he yearned to talk about it, and now, and to this particularly
sympathetic woman, who was not young and giddy, but, like himself,
experienced in the troubles of life, such as weighed him down. There
was "something about her" that irresistibly appealed to him, and he did
not know what; but an author, who knows everything, knows exactly what
it was. It was the moonlight night.

A few words from her, backed by the nameless influences of the hour,
unloosed his tongue.

"You mustn't think me an unnatural parent," he said. "It's not that at
all. I'm awfully fond of him. I've got his photograph in my
pocket--I'll show it to you when we go in--the last one for the time
being. I get a new one about every other mail, in all sorts of get-up,
clothes and no clothes; but all as fat as butter, and grinning from ear
to ear with the joy of life. You never saw such a fetching little cuss.
I'd give anything to get hold of him--if I could."

"But surely--his own father--"

"No. It sounds absurd to you, naturally; but that's because you don't
understand the situation."

"I can't conceive of any