“Saucy little child, to talk of teaching your mother. This Mr. Willett, when shall we see him? I have many questions to ask him.” “He comes quite often.” “He is a young man?” “Not very; he is twenty-five.” “I call that quite young. Agnes, my lamb, is that why you are not ready to be a meenister’s wife?” Agnes’s head dropped against her mother’s shoulder, and she did not answer for a moment. “He does not think of me,” she said after a moment, and in hurried tones. “I--I--Polly says he has a sweetheart in Virginia.” “But you think of him?” The mother was quick to note the hesitation and the evasion. “Ah, my baby, has it come to you then, womanhood’s dream?” she said gently. “Nothing has come to me,” Agnes broke out passionately. “I have been motherless and well-nigh fatherless, and tears have been my portion.” “My lamb! My lamb!” the mother murmured brokenly. “You are no longer motherless, nor have ever been friendless; and, ah, my bairn, if you but knew what a comfort it was to me to hear from Archie M’Clean how brave and strong and helpful you have been.” “I’ve not always been brave and strong, and I grew wild and naughty for a time till--till--they said I was like Polly. Have I grown like Polly, mother?” “Only in some little gestures and tricks of speech, yet you might well imitate her in many ways.” “So I say. Dear Polly, she has been so good, so good to me, and I love her and will not hear anything against her.” “You are right to be loyal, but now, my lamb, it is late and you are tired.” “And how tired you must be, too. Go to bed, dearest of mothers. I shall be so happy to know you are near me.” “And yet a moment ago you were not happy, even with your mother.” “I was very naughty. Please forget that wild talk.” But the mother did not forget, and she looked with critical eyes upon Parker Willett when he appeared a few days later. She saw a tall, dignified young man, slim, dark eyed, dark haired, with resolute chin and a mouth whose grave lines gave rather a severity to the face except when the man smiled, and then one noticed both humor and sweetness. He greeted Mrs. Kennedy with marked courtesy; here was a woman of his own kind, and he was quick to recognize it. He was also quick to see that Agnes had gained in her own manner since her mother’s arrival, unconsciously imitating her quiet and gentle dignity, and almost the first words he said to Mrs. Kennedy were, “It is well for your daughter, Mrs. Kennedy, that you have at last come; she has missed you sadly.” “And has needed me?” Mrs. Kennedy smiled. “Yes, I think that, too. Every girl needs a wise, good mother. I saw--” he turned to Agnes--“I saw Humphrey Muirhead to-day.” “Oh, did you tell him?” “About the will? Yes.” “And what did he say?” Parker smiled. “I think it would hardly do to repeat his very uncomplimentary remarks, but he vows you will never set foot on the place.” “What of your own land?” “I have bought it.”