ut nodded a little and moved back to her
chair.

"He was christened Silva Falconer, for my mother's father and mine," she
said. "They both were greatly disappointed in not having a son. I am going
to tell you about him, only it will be a long story; please be seated. And
it would be easier if you would not look at me."

She waited while he settled again in his chair and turned his eyes to the
blue mountain tops. She was still able to see his face. "Silva was over
six months old when this photograph was taken," she began. "It was lost,
with the letter to David that enclosed it, on some terrible Alaska trail.
Afterwards, when the mailbag was recovered and the letter was returned to
me through the dead-letter office, two years had passed, and our little
boy was--gone. You must understand I expected David back that first
winter, and when word came that his expedition to the interior had failed,
and he had arranged to stay in the north in order to make an early start
in the following spring, I did not want to spoil his plans. So I answered
as gayly as I could and told him it would give me an opportunity to make a
long visit home to California. I went far south to Jacinta and Carlos.
They were caretakers at the old hacienda. My mother had managed that, with
the people who bought the rancheria and built the hotel and sanitarium.
Jacinta had been her nurse and mine. She was very experienced. But Silva
was born lame. He could not use his lower limbs. A great specialist, who
came to the hotel, said he might possibly recover under treatment, but if
he should not in a year or two, certain cords must be cut to allow him to
sit in a wheel chair, and in that case I must give up hope he would ever
walk. But--the treatment was very painful--Jacinta could not bear to--
torture him; I could not afford a trained nurse; so--I did everything. He
was the dearest baby; so lovable. He never was cross, but he used to
nestle his cheek in my neck and explain how it hurt and coax me not to.
Not in words, but I understood--every sound. And he understood me, I know.
'You are going to blame me, by and by, if I stop,' I would say, over and
over; 'you are going to blame me for bringing you into the world.'"

Her voice broke; her breast labored with short, quick breaths, as though
she were climbing some sharp ascent. Tisdale did not look at her; his face
stirred and settled in grim lines.

"I could not write all this about our baby," she went on, "and