When he got back to Philadelphia and told his wife about the boy, he said, "Some of those old cats in Old Chester actually thought he was--her own child." "What!" "Fools. But, Mary, she never betrayed us--that little old woman! She never told the truth." "She never knew it was said." "God knows, I hope she didn't. . . . We ought to have kept him." "Carl! You know we couldn't; it would have been impossible!" "Well, we cared more for our reputations than for our--son," he said. For a moment that poignant word startled Mary into silence; then she said, breathlessly: "But, Carl, that isn't common sense! What about--the boy himself? Would it have been a good thing for him that people should know?" "It might have been a good thing for us," he said; "and it couldn't be any worse for him than it is. Everybody thinks he's illegitimate." He paused, and then he said a really profound thing--for a fat, selfish man. "Mary, I believe there isn't any _real_ welfare that's built on a lie. If it was to do over again I'd stand up to my own cussed folly." "You don't seem to consider me!" she said, bitterly. But he only said, slowly, "He's the finest little chap you ever saw." "Pretty?" she said, forgetting her bitterness. "Oh, he's a boy, a real boy. Freckled. And when he's mad he shows his teeth, just as your father used to; I saw him in a fight. No; of course he's not 'pretty.'" "I'd like to see him--if I wasn't afraid to," she said. She was thirty-four now, a sad, idle, rich woman, with only three interests in life: eating and shopping and keeping the Secret which made her cringe whenever she thought of it, which, since the night she heard Johnny laugh, was pretty much all the time. It was the shopping interest that by and by united with the interest of the Secret; it occurred to her that she might give "him" something. She would buy him a pair of skates! "But you must send them to him, Carl." "Why don't you do it yourself?" "It would look queer. People might--think." "Well, they 'thought' about that poor little woman." "Idiots! She's a hundred years old!" Mary said, jealously. "She wasn't when he was born," her husband said, wearily. He probably loved his wife, but since that day when she had flung away the lure of mystery, her mind had ceased to interest him. This was cruel and unjust, but it was male human nature. "Why don't you get acquainted with the youngster?" Carl said, yawning. "_Carl!_ You know it wouldn't do. Besides, how could I?" "We could take the house ourselves next summer. There's some furniture in it still. It would come about naturally enough. And he would be at our gates." "Oh no--_no_! Maybe he looks like me." "No, he doesn't. Didn't I tell you he isn't particularly good-looking?" "Maybe he looks like you?" she objected, simply. And he laughed, and said, "Thank you, my dear!"