"Eh?" Aunt Clara stared sharply at him. She put on her spectacles, that she might stare more effectively. Then a light broke in on her, a light too incredible, too dazing even for Aunt Clara's confident mind. "Eh? David Quentin! Do you mean to tell me--do you mean--there is another woman? Who is she?" He made no answer, but though his tired face went even whiter, steadily withstood her gaze. "Such a thing never happened in our family before," Aunt Clara gasped weakly, "that I ever heard of. I don't know what to do about it." "There is only one thing," he said steadily. "Shirley must come back at once." Aunt Clara took off her spectacles, rubbed them mechanically and donned them again. Her hands fell nerveless to her lap. "I don't know what to do," she repeated. "For the first time in all my existence. I--I have no precedents. You must leave me for a while until I can think this out." He rose. "You can't think it out. I have tried." "You'd better lie down and get some sleep. You're looking quite badly." "No. I'll go out and find David Junior." "Perhaps that would be better." He went. For an hour Aunt Clara sat alone, trying to work out the hardest problem of life, how to raise a love from the dead. And all she achieved was a bitter self-reproach. For the first time in all her existence. A ripple of childish laughter came to her through an opened window. She rose and looked out. She saw the Davids, little and big, sitting chummily on the lawn. Then Aunt Clara thanked God that David and Shirley had been given a son. "We have that much to start with--though it seems little enough just now." She sniffed, as a matter of necessity, and hastily reached for her handkerchief. When it was time for Davy Junior's dinner and nap she summoned David to her sitting-room again. "David," she began, very meekly for Aunt Clara, "I've been thinking it over. I ought to blame you. But I can't. I've had all I could do blaming myself. Are you thinking I am a selfish, meddlesome old fool?" David shook his head wearily. "But I am. I was lonesome alone here in this big old house and I really thought-- But never mind that now. Does she--that other woman know?" "I think not." "Is she--is she in love with you?" "Oh, no! That is impossible. Oh, no!" he repeated. "That couldn't be. It would be too terrible." "It's terrible enough as it is. Are you going to tell Shirley?" "That wouldn't help matters, would it?" "I suppose not," she sighed. "David, you must be very gentle with her. It isn't her fault she wanted to run away from hard times. All her life we have spoiled her, her father and mother and Maizie and I. I did it worst of all, as I never spoiled my own child. David, come over here." He went to the chair beside her and she reached for his hand very awkwardly.