Alice explained to her son her apparent lack of affection for him in allowing him to be separated from her so long. “I knew you were with your relatives and good friends, Quincy. In my nervous, depressed state I was poor company for a young, healthy boy. Then, I had such a fear of the ocean I dared not go to you and was afraid to have you come to me. Can you forgive me?” “My darling mother,” said young Quincy, “what you did turned out for the best. I have been educated as an American and that fully atones for my apparent neglect. Your beautiful letters kept you always in my mind, and I used to take great pleasure in telling my schoolmates what a pretty mother I had.” Alice, despite her years, blushed. “Quincy, you are like your father in praising those you love.” Tom gave Quincy's father graphic descriptions of the changes in Fernborough and fully endorsed his friend's opinion of Mr. Strout. “He's a snake in the grass,” said Tom. “He'd pat you on the back with one hand and cut your throat, figuratively speaking, with the other.” “Do you think he'd recognize me?” asked Quincy. “I think not,” said Tom. “His perceptive powers are not strong. He's sub-acute rather than 'cute.” Quincy and Alice sat for hours looking out upon the wide expanse of ocean, and at the blue sky above them. It did not seem possible that so many years had passed since they were together. Memory is a great friend. It bridged the great gap in their lives. They were lovers as of yore, and would be always. They did not hesitate to talk of the cruel past--not sadly, for were they not in the happy present? Said Alice one morning, “While you were gone I was in a terribly nervous condition. Aunt Ella said that I must have something to employ my mind--and I wrote, or tried to write. I couldn't keep my mind on one thing long enough to write a story, but I have collected the material for one, and now that I am happy once more, when we have settled down, I am going to write it.” “What's the title, or, rather, the subject?” her husband inquired. “Oh, it opens with a ship-wreck--not a collision but a fire was the cause. Among the passengers are many children--of high and low degree--and they get mixed up--fall into wrong persons' hands,--fathers and mothers are lost and cannot claim them, and their future lives have supplied me with the strongest and most intricate and exciting plot that I have ever constructed.” “Which is the 'star' child?” “He is the son of a Russian Grand Duke--the offspring of a morganatic marriage--his mother is driven from the country by order of the Czar. The title is _The Son of Sergius_.” They did not remain in New York but took the first train for Boston. They were driven to the Mount Vernon Street house. “I knew you were coming,” cried Maude, as she ran eagerly down the steps to meet them. “Who has turned traitor? I pledged them all to secrecy,” cried Quincy. “Harry told me, and I had a cablegram from Florence.”