“Yes?” There was a little laugh in the word. She was accustomed to the child’s enthusiasms. Yet they were always new to her--even the old ones were. “Who was he, daughter--this very good man?” “He is a Greek, mother--with a long, beautiful name--I don’t think I can tell it to you. But he is most wonderful--!” The child spread her hands and drew a deep breath. “More wonderful than father?” It was an idle, laughing question--while she studied the lifted-up face. “More wonderful than father--yes--” The child nodded gravely. “I can’t quite tell you, mother-dear, how it feels--” She laid a tiny hand on her chest. Her eyes were full of thought. “He speaks like music, and he loves things--oh, very much!” “I see--And did Madame Lewandowska introduce you to him?” “Oh, it was not there.” The child’s face cleared with swift thought. “I didn’t tell you--Madame was ill--” The reclining figure straightened a little in its place, but the face was still smiling. “So you and Miss Stone--” “But Miss Stone is ill, mother-dear. Did you forget her toothache?” The tone was politely reproachful. The woman was very erect now--her small eyes, grown wide, gazing at the child, devouring her. “Betty! Where have you been?” It was more a cry than a question--a cry of dismay, running swiftly toward terror. It was the haunting fear of her life that Betty would some day be kidnapped, as the child next door had been.... The fingers resting on the arm of the chair were held tense. “I don’t think I did wrong, mother.” The child was looking at her very straight, as if answering a challenge. “You see, I walked home--” “Where was James?” The woman’s tone was sharp, and her hand reached toward the bell; but the child’s hand moved softly toward it. “I’d like to tell you about it myself, please, mother. James never waits for the lessons. I don’t think he was to blame.” The woman’s eyes were veiled with sudden mist. She drew the child close. “Tell mother about it.” Betty Harris looked down, stroking her mother’s sleeve. A little smile of memory held her lips. “He was a beautiful man!” she said. The mother waited, breathless. “I was walking home, and I came to his shop--” “To his shop!” She nodded reassuringly. “His fruit-shop--and--oh, I forgot--” She reached into the little bag at her side, tugging at something. “He gave me these.” She produced the round box and took off the lid, looking into it with pleased eyes. “Aren’t they beautiful?” The mother bent blindly to it. “Pomegranates,” she said. Her lips were still a little white, but they smiled bravely with the child’s pleasure. “Pomegranates,” said Betty, nodding. “That is what he called them. I should like to taste one--” She was looking at them a little wistfully. “We will have them for luncheon,” said the mother. She had touched the bell with quick decision. “Marie”--she held out the box--“tell Nesmer to serve these with luncheon.”