"I sha'n't ask for what is my own," she told Carl; "I'll just say I'm going to take him for the Christmas holidays. She won't dare to say he can't come!" Yet when she went to tell Miss Lydia that Johnny was coming, her certainty that the shabby woman wouldn't "dare," faded. Miss Lydia was in the kitchen, making cookies for her boy, and she could not instantly leave her rolling-pin when his mother knocked at the front door. Mary had not been at that door since the September night when she had crouched, sobbing, on the steps. And now again it was September, and again the evening primroses were opening in the dusk. . . . As she knocked, a breath of their subtle perfume brought back that other dusk, and for an instant she was engulfed in a surge of memory. She felt faint and leaned against the door, waiting for Miss Lydia's little running step in the hall. She could hardly speak when the door opened. "Good--good evening," she said, in a whisper. Miss Lydia, her frightened eyes peering at her caller from under that black frizette, could hardly speak herself. Mary was the one to get herself in hand first. "May I come in, Miss Sampson?" "Why, yes--" said Miss Lydia, doubtfully, and dusted her floury hands together. "I came to say," Mary began, following her back to the kitchen, "I came--" "I'm making cookies for Johnny," Miss Lydia said, briskly, and Mary's soft hands clenched. Why shouldn't _she_ be making cookies for Johnny! "I've got a pan in the oven," said Miss Lydia, "and I've got to watch 'em." Mary was silent; she sat down by the table, her breath catching in her throat. Miss Lydia did not, apparently, notice the agitation; she bustled about and brought her a cooky on a cracked plate--and watched her. "I want--" Mary said, in a trembling voice, and crumbling the cooky with nervous fingers--"I mean, I am going to have Johnny visit me this winter." "Oh," said Miss Lydia, and sat down. "I'll have him during the holidays." "No." "Why not?" Mary said, angrily. "He'd guess." "You needn't be afraid of _that_!" Miss Lydia silently shook her head; instantly Mary's anger turned to fright. "Oh, Miss Lydia--please! I promise you he shall never have the dimmest idea--why, he _couldn't_ have! It wouldn't do, you know. But I want him just to--to look at." Miss Lydia was pale. She may have been a born gambler, but never had she taken such a chance as this--to give Johnny back, even for a week, to the people who once had thrown him away, but who now were ready to do everything for him, give him anything he wanted!--and a boy wants so many things! "No," she said, "no." Mary gave a starved cry, then dropped on her knees, clutched at the small, rough, floury hand and tried to kiss it. "A mother has a claim," she said, passionately. Miss Lydia, pulling her hand away, nodded. "Yes, a mother has." "Then let him come. Oh, let him come!" "_Are you his mother?_"