an swung herself about the room testified
that the crippled condition was not a new one.

Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she had
taken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She had
tried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail of
the bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotless
tablecloth, that was not stamped on her brain.

Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared
his throat nervously. Billy did not know whether she herself were the
more distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer:

"We--er--I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understand
you had an--er--teapot that--er--" With his eyes on the cracked white
crockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a helpless pause.

A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs.
Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after the
other to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though even
yet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance toward the door
before she spoke.

"The Lowestoft! Yes, I'm so glad!--that is, of course I must be glad.
I'll get it." Her voice broke as she pulled herself from her chair.
There was only despairing sorrow on her face now.

The man rose at once.

"But, madam, perhaps--don't let me--" I he began stammeringly. "Of
course--Billy!" he broke off in an entirely different voice. "Jove! What
a beauty!"

Mrs. Greggory had thrown open the door of a small cupboard near the
collector's chair, disclosing on one of the shelves a beautifully shaped
teapot, creamy in tint, and exquisitely decorated in a rose design. Near
it set a tray-like plate of the same ware and decoration.

"If you'll lift it down, please, yourself," motioned Mrs. Greggory. "I
don't like to--with these," she explained, tapping the crutches at her
side.

With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, the
collector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled.

"Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the real
thing--the genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray--did you
notice?" he exulted, turning back to the shelf. "You _don't_ see that
every day! They get separated, most generally, you know."

"These pieces have been in our family for generations," said Mrs.
Greggory with an accent of pride. "You'll find them quite perfect, I
think."

"Perfect!