“I expect they think you might want something and there would be no one to give it to you,” she said. “Do you really want to see my latest sketch? You are sure it interests you?” “Yes—yes.” A touch of impatience sounded in the answer, but the next moment a thin old hand came out and patted hers. “My little daughter!” he said very fondly. “I can’t spare you to that brother of mine again. He keeps you too long—too long.” “I am very glad to be back,” said Frances gently. She looked down at the ivory-coloured hand with its nervous, clutching fingers, and was irresistibly reminded of the talons of a bird. When it closed upon her own, she was conscious of a sense of chill that almost amounted to shrinking. But still pity was uppermost in her mind, pity for this frail old man whose hold on life was so weak and yet who seemed to cling to it with such persistence. His clasp relaxed after a moment. “Well, dear, let me see what you have been doing!” he said wearily. “I must not talk very much to-day. My heart is very tired. Have you more than one to show me?” “No, only one,” she said. “There hasn’t been a great deal of time just lately.” “Ah!” He smiled. “The pomps and vanities! Is that it? You have been very gay, I hear? And that handsome youngster—your cousin—what has he to say for himself? You will never contenance any serious attention from him, my darling, promise me! He is in love with you, of course. They all are. You are so lovely—so lovely. But cousins, you know, cousins are only brothers and sisters once removed. Uncle Theodore would never permit it for a moment. Neither would I, dear. You know that. You are so beautiful. You will look higher than a near relation with a wild record like his. Pshaw! I am talking nonsense. You would never dream of marrying him.” “Never!” said Frances very decidedly, as he paused for her assurance. “Thank you, dear, thank you,” he said. “Now let me see your sketch!” She held it up in front of him, propped as he was upon the pillows, and there fell a long silence while he scrutinized it. The picture was of Ruth standing among the sheaves in the sunlight, with her flower-like face upraised, and in her little hands a trailing bunch of the golden corn. The old man looked at it intently with drawn brows. Finally, with a deliberation that was almost painful, he looked at her. “Who is that child?” he said. She hesitated for a second; then: “Don’t you remember little—Ruth?” she said gently. His frown deepened. “Little Ruth! You mean the blind child, I think—the little girl who lives with us?” “Yes,” said Frances.