Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on two once-costly crutches. Both the worn places on the crutches, and the skill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testified that the crippled condition was not a new one. Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she had taken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She had tried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail of the bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotless tablecloth, that was not stamped on her brain. Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared his throat nervously. Billy did not know whether she herself were the more distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer: “We--er--I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understand you had an--er--teapot that--er--” With his eyes on the cracked white crockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a helpless pause. A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs. Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after the other to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though even yet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance toward the door before she spoke. “The Lowestoft! Yes, I'm so glad!--that is, of course I must be glad. I'll get it.” Her voice broke as she pulled herself from her chair. There was only despairing sorrow on her face now. The man rose at once. “But, madam, perhaps--don't let me--” I he began stammeringly. “Of course--Billy!” he broke off in an entirely different voice. “Jove! What a beauty!” Mrs. Greggory had thrown open the door of a small cupboard near the collector's chair, disclosing on one of the shelves a beautifully shaped teapot, creamy in tint, and exquisitely decorated in a rose design. Near it set a tray-like plate of the same ware and decoration. “If you'll lift it down, please, yourself,” motioned Mrs. Greggory. “I don't like to--with these,” she explained, tapping the crutches at her side. With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, the collector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled. “Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the real thing--the genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray--did you notice?” he exulted, turning back to the shelf. “You _don't_ see that every day! They get separated, most generally, you know.” “These pieces have been in our family for generations,” said Mrs. Greggory with an accent of pride. “You'll find them quite perfect, I think.” “Perfect! I should say they were,” cried the man. “They are, then--valuable?” Mrs. Greggory's voice shook. “Indeed they are! But you must know that.” “I have been told so. Yet to me their chief value, of course, lies in their association. My mother and my grandmother owned that teapot, sir.” Again her voice broke. William Henshaw cleared his throat.