“She was good to me,” he said simply, “with a wise goodness which did not let me be spoiled. She was not a married woman. Her name was Harriet Foster, and the name tells what she was like, simple and straightforward and practical. She had lost all of her family and was tired of living alone. She had been looking for some time for a child to help fill her life, and when she saw me, she seemed satisfied. I was satisfied, too, and not at all afraid of her even at first.” “Won’t you rest awhile now, Keefe?” broke in Azalea, trying desperately to do her duty. Keefe looked at the parted lips and shining eyes which betrayed her breathless inquisitiveness, and shook his head. “Miss Foster did not make me her son by legal adoption,” he went on. “She left my name as it was. Bridget had named me Keefe, which was her name before she was married, and dear old Mike had lent me the honorable name of O’Connor. So Keefe O’Connor I remained. But instead of the foul basement home I had known, here was a quiet, staid, respectable home; a three-storied red brick structure, cared for by self-respecting servants, furnished with pleasing old furniture, and presided over by Harriet Foster. She had a group of quiet, gracious friends like herself, whom she entertained at tea once a week, bringing me in to be shown off. I passed their teacups and sang little songs for them sometimes, and after I had begun to draw, was told to show them my drawings.” “Did you love her?” broke in Azalea. “Did she seem like a mother to you?” “Love her? I felt contented with her; but she seldom kissed me even when I was a little fellow. She taught me to be very self-reliant and thorough, and gave me a fine discipline. We liked to be together. It was always a great day when we went out to the sea, or to the picture galleries. We could laugh together and be patient together over troubles. If that is loving, then we loved each other. But no, she didn’t seem like a mother to me. She seemed like Miss Foster, and that is what I called her.” “Oh, poor little boy!” “Not so poor, Azalea, not so poor. Children aren’t poor when they’re given a chance to be themselves and aren’t driven from pillar to post by some tyrant. Miss Foster let me grow up to be myself. She fed me, clothed me, housed me, and taught me her ideas of honor and kindness and right living. When she found that I wanted to be an artist, she put me in the way of becoming one. I lived with her till I was seventeen years of age. Then she, too, like my poor little mother and dear blowsy Bridget O’Connor, left me, and since then, I have been alone.” “Alone!” repeated Azalea beneath her breath. “And never a word of your sister all these years, Keefe?” She smiled at him so beautifully, bending forward, questioning him as it seemed, so almost gayly, that he looked at her in amazement.