Moreover, she saw much of Harry in him. It was that which made her so willing to listen--she continually comparing the father to the son. These comparisons were invariably made in a circle, beginning at Rutter's brown eyes, taking in his features and peculiarities--many of them reproduced in his son's--such as the firm set of the lips and the square line of the chin--and ending, quite naturally, with the brown orbs again. While Harry's matched the color and shape, and often the fierce glare of the father's, they could also, she said to herself, shine with the soft light of the mother's. It was from the mother's side, then, that there came the willingness to yield to whatever tempted him--it may be to drink--to a false sense of honor--to herself: Harry being her slave instead of her master. And the other men around her--so far as yielding was concerned (here her brow would tighten and her lips straighten)--were no better. Even Uncle George must take her own “No” for an answer and believe it when she meant quite a different thing. And once more would her soul break out in revolt over the web in which she had become entangled, and once more would she cry herself to sleep. Nobody but her old black mammy knew how tragic had been her sufferings, how many bitter hours she had passed, nor how many bitter tears she had shed. Yet even old Henny could not comfort her, nor was there any one else to whom the girl could pour out her heart. She had, it is true, kept up her intimacy with her Uncle George--hardly a week passed that she was not a visitor at his house or he at hers--but they had long since refrained from discussing Harry. Not because he did not want to talk about him, but because she would not let him--Of course not! To Richard Horn, however, strange to say, she often turned--not so much for confidences as for a broader understanding of life. The thoughtful inventor was not so hedged about by social restrictions, and would break out in spontaneous admiration of Harry, saying with a decisive nod of his head, “A fine, splendid young fellow, my dear Kate; I recognized it first at St. George's dinner to Mr. Poe, and if I may say so, a much-abused young man whose only sin is that he, like many another about us, has been born under a waning star in a sky full of murky clouds; one that the fresh breeze of a new civilization will some day clear away”--a deduction which Kate could not quite grasp, but which comforted her greatly.