THE studio lamps made cheerful colors in the right places, and Cynthia feeling the world as far as she was concerned in her lap, in the shape of a baby boy, round and fair with undecided features, felt that life had brought its own rewards, richly, wonderfully. She was almost afraid, she was so happy, with the fear of those who have gone into the darkness, and dreamt only of the light. Leslie Damores was painting her again, but the face was different. It was called “Motherhood,” and it told of the great need satisfied. Muriel was coming in to see the picture. The studio door opened and a woman come into the room; she was little, and French, and beautifully dressed. She advanced towards Cynthia with a little cry; then she laughed. “Why, Cynthia, you’ve got a baby! I told them to let me come right up. I was an old friend, and I just had to come. Oh, there’s your husband!” She turned with another rapid laugh towards Leslie. He was looking bravely at his wife, whose face was strained and anxious; the woman seemed evidently nervous too. “Well, you’re very silent you two,” she cried defiantly. “What do you want?” said Cynthia coldly. “I thought you had gone away.” “And so I did, and I’ve come back. Clifton died, and I married again. Did you know it?—an American too—and he didn’t give me any peace till I promised to get Launcelot. We Americans seem to have such horrid consciences.” “You never had, had you?” said Cynthia quietly. The woman looked angry, then she laughed. “Well, I guess you’re about right—I never had much trouble that way; but when Sam Hicks wanted Launcelot I felt it would be right sweet to take him back with us to America, and I had the greatest time finding your address. You’re fixed up real genteel, Mr. Damores; I should think you must have made painting pay. And is that Cynthia’s picture? How perfectly lovely!” “Mrs. Hicks,” said Cynthia slowly—“I think I understood you to say that was your husband’s name—when you let me take Launcelot three years ago I had no idea you would ever claim him again. He has just gone to school here in England. He is very happy——” Cynthia’s voice broke. “Oh, why do you want him again?” she cried—“it’s cruel.” “I am going to have my boy,” said Mrs. Hicks raising her voice. “I tell you——” “A moment,” Leslie Damores broke in. “You were last heard of running away with a French Count. Do you think you are a fit person to take care of a child?” “Why, how dare you?” she cried, facing him with frightened rage; “I declare I never heard the like! I’ll have you up for libel, Mr. Leslie Damores; and, as for you, Mrs. Leslie Damores——” “I am speaking for my wife, and you may speak to me,” said Leslie, “otherwise you leave the room.” Mrs. Hicks began to cry.