"Oh, that is too bad! I am very sorry. Was it long ago that she died?" "Oh, yes! Long, long ago. More than twenty years." "More than twenty years! I think you must be mistaken. How old are you?" "Nine next July." "Then your mother could not have died twenty years ago." "Yes. She died long before I was born." Miss Clement slowly shook her head. "But not twenty years. That is impossible." "But she did." "Then she was your step-mother perhaps?" "No. My own mother." This conversation was becoming so very absurd that Miss Clement made no answer. She merely looked away--and studied the room. The boy smiled as if amused at her ignorance. "Don't you understand how it was?" The lady's only reply was to close her eyes wearily. But he stepped nearer and laid a hand on each of her knees, to wake her up. "Don't you see," he said, "the difference between eight and twenty is twelve, isn't it?" "It is." "Well, then she must have been dead twelve years when I was born." Now Miss Clement could never do arithmetic. She abominated figures, and these words were uttered with so much conviction--reënforced by the wisdom of his eyes--that her brain became tangled for a moment. It seemed to shrink, in a sort of nervous bewilderment, from this fantastic puzzle. He smiled at her obvious confusion, moved backward a step or two, folded his hands behind him and squirmed with delight. "It's funny you don't understand. I guess I am smarter than you are." Miss Clement shut tight her lips and looked away--anywhere. Her own brain seemed laughing at her. "I s'pose," said the Vandal, "I don't need a mother much." "Every boy needs a mother. Is Joanna your sister?" He laughed at such an absurd mistake. "No! She's lots older than you are. She's housekeeper--and lots of things." Miss Clement looked about the room, at the pictures on the walls. They were mostly engravings and photographs. "Is there a portrait of your mother here?" "No, ma'am." "Not anywhere in the house?" "No." "There must be a photograph." "No." "Are you sure?" "Yes'm." "That is very strange." "Why?" "Because--because--it is most unusual. Did she die here in this house?" "Oh, no! Of course not!" "Why of course not?" "Because she died in Italy." "Was she Italian?" "I guess so." "Have you never seen a portrait of her?" "No, ma'am." Miss Clement frowned. There seemed to be a mystery here. Possibly a scandal of some sort. And her interest quickened. "I suppose your father talks to you about her sometimes." "No, ma'am." "Never?" "No, ma'am." "Of course he has told you where you were born?" "P'r'aps." "Perhaps what?" "P'r'aps he did." "But you don't remember?" "No, ma'am." Nobody likes to be thwarted in the pursuit of knowledge. In this case it seemed to Miss Clement that the deeper she delved the less she found. "Don't you remember ever having seen a portrait of her?" "Of course not." "Why of course not?" "Because there isn't any."