His mother cried out--then checked herself. "Miss Lydia ought not to have thought of such a thing!" she tried to speak quietly, but she had to bite her lip to keep it steady. "Mary!" her husband warned her. John's face darkened. "Aunty ought always to do whatever she does do," he said. "Of course," his father agreed, soothingly. "I only meant," Mary explained, in a frightened voice, "that a hardware store isn't much of a chance for a man like you." "It means staying in Old Chester with Aunty," he explained; "she's not very well now, Mrs. Robertson," he said, and sighed; "it would be too much for her, to move. She's not equal to it." His strong, rather harsh face softened and sobered. "And as for a hardware store not being a chance for _me_--I mean to make Rome howl with a Mercer branch! You see, Aunty bought a half-interest for me. The Lord knows where she got the money! Saved it out of her food all these years, I guess." "She didn't, apparently, save it out of your food," Doctor Lavendar said, dryly; "I believe you weigh two hundred, Johnny." "Only a hundred and eighty-four," the young man assured him. Mary, listening, was tingling all over; she had planned a very cautious approach to the truth which was to give her son back to her. She meant first to hint, and then to admit, and then to declare her _right_ to his love. But that Miss Lydia, without consulting Johnny's father and mother, should have put him into such a business--"_my son_ in a hardware store!" Mary thought;--that Miss Lydia should have dared! "He's mine--he's mine--he's mine! . . . Of course," she was saying to herself as they went back to the library after dinner--"of course, he'll give it up the minute he knows who he is. But I hate her!" The room, in the September dusk, was lighted only by a lamp on the big desk; the windows opening on the garden were raised, for it was hot after the rain, and the air blew in, fragrant with wet leaves and the scent of some late roses. Johnny's father, sinking down in a great leather chair, watched the young, vigorous figure standing in front of the mantelpiece, smoking and, after the fashion of his years, laying down the law for the improvement of the world. Doctor Lavendar did not look at Johnny, but at his mother, who stood clutching the corner of the big desk--that desk at which, one September night twenty-three years ago, Johnny's grandfather had been sitting when Miss Lydia came into the library. . . . "Mary, my dear, aren't you going to sit down?" said Doctor Lavendar. She did not seem to hear him. "Look here," she said, harshly; "I can't stand it--I won't stand it--" Carl sprang up and laid his hand on her arm. "Mary!" he said, under his breath. "_Please_," he besought her; "for God's sake don't--don't--" "Johnny, you belong to me," Mary said. John Smith, his cigar halfway to his lips, paused, bewildered and alarmed. "Isn't she well?" he said, in a low voice to Doctor Lavendar.