"No; Jim." "Dear me; that's very odd. He certainly should have been called after his father. I wonder how they could have been so thoughtless." Cynthia drew forward an armchair, stooped and carefully arranged the ottoman, and then went with stern determination to look for Jim Weatherby. He was sitting in the stable doorway, fitting a shoe on the old mare, while Lila leaned against an overturned barrel in the sunshine outside. At Cynthia's sudden appearance they both started and looked up in amazement, the words dying slowly on their lips. "Why, whatever is the matter, Cynthia?" cried Lila, as if in terror. Cynthia came forward until she stood directly at the mare's head, where she delivered her message with a gasp: "Mother insists upon talking to Jim. There's no help for it; he must come." Weatherby dropped the mare's hoof and raised a breathless question to Cynthia's face, while Lila asked quickly: "Does she know?" "Know what?" demanded Cynthia, turning grimly upon her. "Of course she knows that Jim is his father's son." The young man rose and laid the hammer down on the overturned barrel; then he led the mare back to her stall, and coming out again, washed his hands in a tub of water by the door. "Well, I'm ready," he observed quietly. "Shall I go in alone?" "Oh, we don't ask that of you," said Lila, laughing. "Come; I'll take you." She slipped her hand under his arm and they went gaily toward the house, leaving Cynthia to pick up the horseshoe nails lying loose upon the ground. Hearing the young man's step on the threshold, Mrs. Blake turned her head with a smile of pleasant condescension and stretched out her delicate yellowed hand. "This is Jim Weatherby, mother," said Lila in her softest voice. "Cynthia says you want to talk to him." "I know, my child; I know," returned Mrs. Blake, with an animated gesture. "Come in, Jim, and don't trouble to stand. Find him a chair, Lila. I knew your father long before you were born," she added, turning to the young man, "and I knew only good of him. I suppose he has often told you of the years he worked for us?" Jim held her hand for an instant in his own, and then, bending over, raised it to his lips. "My father never tires of telling us about the old times, and about Mr. Blake and yourself," he answered in his precise English, and with the simple dignity which he never lost. Lila, watching him, prayed silently that a miracle might open the old lady's eyes and allow her to see the kind, manly look upon his face. Mrs. Blake nodded pleasantly, with evident desire to put him wholly at his ease.