When Cyrus followed his father into the house he found him warming himself before the open fire. He approached and stood before him. "Father, why isn't there a picture of my mother somewhere round the house?" Dr. Alton raised his eyebrows at the unexpected question. "Why do you ask, Cyrus?" "'Cause somebody was here to-day who wanted to know." "Who?" With a knowing shake of the head the diplomat answered, "Oh, I mustn't tell you. I promised not to." "Well, you must keep your promise." "But why isn't there one?" "It's a long story, Cyrus. Some day I will tell you, but not just now." "But why not now? This is when I want to know. I may forget about it." Dr. Alton was familiar with the gimlet quality of the youthful mind. "Well--Cyrus--let us wait and see if you forget it. And if you----" At that moment he happened to look more carefully at a letter in his hand, delivered during his absence and which he had just taken from the table. Cyrus waited for him to go on. He waited in vain. Dr. Alton stepped hastily to the window for more light, and read the letter. It was evidently of unusual interest, as he forgot to finish his sentence. And when, at last, Cyrus asked him to continue he did not even hear his son's voice. The letter was written in a woman's hand, and in French. At the supper table that evening father and son were sitting alone, as usual. The son was talkative, but the father was silent; so silent that Cyrus, at last discouraged by the complete indifference of a usually sympathetic audience, became silent himself. And the father had abundant material for thought. He was trying to understand how the message in the letter had reached the boy. By what mysterious agency had this yearning of a woman's heart stirred the brain of the far away Cyrus? Could there be a harmony between these two spirits so intimate as to render the written word superfluous? These were questions he tried in vain to answer. When the meal was finished and Joanna began to clear away the things, Dr. Alton surprised her by asking if Cyrus had a good suit of clothes. "A good suit of clothes! Of course he has!" "I mean, a nice new suit, that is becoming to him." "He has that pretty dark suit with the wide collar that he wears Sundays." "Yes,--yes--I know--but would that be good enough to wear in New York." "In New York? Is Cyrus going to New York?" And there was a ring of dismay in Joanna's voice. "I think so." "When?" "To-morrow." "What for?" Dr. Alton hesitated. "I have some--sort of business there and--will take him with me." "Will he stay long?" "Only a day or two." "Heaven be praised! I began to be frightened." The doctor laughed. "You needn't worry, Joanna. We shall come back alive--and very soon."