Kenyon was developing into a shy, lovely child of few noises; he seemed to love to listen to every continuous sound--a creaking gate, a waterdrip from the eaves, a whistling wind--a humming wire. Sometimes the Doctor would watch Kenyon long minutes, as the child listened to the fire's low murmur in the grate, and would wonder what the little fellow made of it all. But above everything else about the child the Doctor was interested in watching his eyes develop into the great, liquid, soulful orbs that marked his mother. To the Doctor the resemblance was rather weird. But he could see no other point in the child's body or mind or soul whereon Margaret Mueller had left a token. The Doctor liked to discuss Kenyon with his wife from the standpoint of ancestry. He took a sort of fiendish delight--if one may imagine a fiend with a seraphic face and dancing blue eyes and a mouth that loved to pucker in a pensive whistle--in Mrs. Nesbit's never failing stumble over the child's eyes. Any evening he would lay aside his Browning----even in a knotty passage wherein the Doctor was wont to take much pleasure, and revert to type thus: "Yes, I guess there's something in blood as you say! The child shows it! But where do you suppose he gets those eyes?" His wife would answer energetically, "They aren't like Amos's and they certainly are not much like Mary's! Yet those eyes show that somewhere in the line there was fine blood and high breeding." And the Doctor, remembering the kraut-peddling Mueller, who used to live back in Indiana, and who was Kenyon's great-grandfather, would shake a wise head and answer: "Them eyes is certainly a throw-back to the angel choir, my dear--a sure and certain throw-back!" And while Mrs. Nesbit was climbing the Sands family tree, from Mary Adams back to certain Irish Sandses of the late eighteenth century, the Doctor would flit back to "Paracelsus," to be awakened from its spell by: "Only the Irish have such eyes! They are the mark of the Celt all over the world! But it's curious that neither Mary nor Daniel had those eyes!" "It's certainly curious like," squeaked the Doctor amicably--"certainly curious like, as the treetoad said when he couldn't holler up a rain. But it only proves that blood always tells! Bedelia, there's really nothing so true in this world as blood!" And Mrs. Nesbit would ask him a moment later what he could find so amusing in "Paracelsus"? She certainly never had found anything but headaches in it. Yet there came a time when the pudgy little stomach of the Doctor did not shake in merriment. For he also had his problem of blood to solve. Tom Van Dorn was, after all, the famous Van Dorn baby!