“I have something to show you, father,” he said, gently. The poor boy thought that the fortnight’s loneliness had wrought this change in his beloved parent, whom he understood about as much as a beetle understands an eagle. And he fetched in two small packing-cases with lightly-fastened lids. “There,” he said, “are they not beautiful? I made the ivy one myself.” He opened the cases and removed some wadding. Dr. Paull stared with some perplexity at two wreaths—one of ivy, the other of white lilies. Then he bit his lip—he remembered! For the first time since Lilia’s death, he had not noted the approach of the anniversary of that terrible day when his son’s baby-hand had held him back from the one unforgivable sin—self-murder. On that day it had been his custom to take Lilia’s son to her grave, and talk to him of his mother: of what was best in her, that the memory of a mother should be even more to the boy than the influence of that mother, had she lived. This time—he had forgotten! “They are beautiful, Ralph,” he said, placing his hand affectionately on his boy’s shoulder. “Let us put them in a cool place, and go to bed. We must be up early to-morrow.” He had not counted these last days as days of the month. He had made careless engagements for Tuesdays or Wednesdays, or other days in the week; and to-morrow he had appointments with important patients, and a consultation. “It looks like decadence—strangely like decadence,” he told himself, bitterly, as, looking in the glass, he noted the deep lines on his face, the haggard look in his eyes. “I did not remember the twenty-first; and now I must cancel everything to-morrow—for the boy’s sake, I must be consistent—I must take him to his mother’s grave. But—to let everything go to the wall! Well, it must be done. But this shall be a lesson. No more fooling with princes and princesses—solid, sensible work.” A brave determination, Dr. Paull! But, when you made it, did Fate smile, or shed a tear? CHAPTER X. A DISAPPOINTMENT. Dr. Paull and his son left Waterloo with their cases of flowers at an early hour next morning. Hugh was in a severe humour. Out of temper with himself, he was inclined to be out of temper with the rest of mankind. The first incident did not improve his humour. Like other travellers, he was in the habit of buying papers, to beguile the tedium of the railway journey. He had partially read his _Times_, when Ralph, who sat opposite, leant over, and, showing him an illustration in a well-known weekly, said: “Is it like her, father?” It was the portrait of the Princess Andriocchi, after a painting in the Paris _Salon_. For a moment he hardly realised the extraordinary fact that his boy should ask him such a question, then recovering himself: “Like whom?” he asked.