“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t like to fool with a pencil. My mother gave me my first lessons. She had a very pretty talent--sketched well and did water colors--very nice ones, too. That’s one of them over there--a corner of our garden in the old home at Laconia.” Mills walked slowly across the room to look at a framed water color that hung over Bruce’s writing table. “Yes; I can see that it’s good work. I remember that garden--I seem to remember this same line of hollyhocks against the brick wall.” “Oh, mother had that every year! Her flowers were famous in Laconia.” “And that sun-dial--I seem to remember that, too,” Mills observed meditatively. “Mother liked that sort of thing. We used to sit out there in the summer. She made a little festival of the coming of spring. I think all the birds in creation knew her as friend. And the neighbor children came in to hear her read--fairy stories and poetry. We had jolly good times there--mother and I!” “I’m sure you did,” said Mills gravely. As he stepped away from the table his eyes fell upon the photograph of a young woman in a silver frame. He bent down for a closer inspection. Bruce turned away, walked the length of the room and glanced round to find Mills still regarding the photograph. “My mother, as she was at about thirty,” Bruce remarked. “Yes; I thought so. Somewhat older than when I knew her, but the look of youth is still there.” “I prefer that to any other picture of her I have. She refused to be photographed in her later years--said she didn’t want me to think of her as old. And she never was that--could never have been.” “I can well believe it,” said Mills softly. “Time deals gently with spirits like hers.” “No one was ever like her,” said Bruce with feeling. “She made the world a kindlier and nobler place by living in it.” “And you’re loyal to the ideal she set for you! You think of her, I’m sure, in all you do--in all you mean to do.” “Yes, it helps--it helps a lot to feel that somewhere she knows and cares.” Mills picked up a book, scanned the title page unseeingly and threw it down. “I’ve just about killed an evening for you,” he said with a smile and put out his hand cordially. “My chauffeur is probably frozen.” “You’ve been a big help!” replied Bruce. “It’s been fine to have you here. I’ll see Mr. Freeman tomorrow and go over the whole thing again. He may be able to squeeze the fountain out of the appropriation! May I tell him it’s your idea?” “Oh, no! No, indeed! Just let my meddlesomeness be a little joke between us. I shall be leaving town shortly and may not see you again for several months. So good-bye and good luck!” Bruce walked downstairs with him. At the entrance they again shook hands, as if the good will on both sides demanded this further expression of amity. III