Mrs. Lowell laughed and shook the arm she was still holding. "You do know, Bertie," she said. "You must have eaten lots of blueberries." Her merry eyes held his dull ones as she spoke. "I don't like to hear you say you don't know, all the time." "What difference does it make?" he returned. "All the difference in the world. The most important thing in life is for us to _know_. There are such quantities of beautiful things for us to know. This day, for instance. We can know it is beautiful, can't we?" When they reached the stony beach, she released his arm and sat down among the pebbles. He did not look at them or at the sea; but at her. She wore a blue dress and her brown hair was ruffling in the wind. "Do you like stones?" she asked. "I--" he began. She lifted her hand and laughed again into his eyes. "Careful!" she said. "Don't say you don't know." The boy's look altered from dullness to perplexity. "But I don't--" he began slowly. "Then find out right now," she said, lifting a hand full of the smooth pebbles while the tide seethed and hissed near them. She held out her hand to him. "Pick out the prettiest," she said, and he began pulling them over with his forefinger. "I love stones," she went on. "See how the ocean has polished them for us. Years and years of polishing has gone to these, and yet we can pick them up on a bright summer morning and have them for our own if we want them." "There's one sort of green," said Bertie. "Green. That's like me. Uncle Nick says I'm green." "Uncle Nick doesn't know everything," said Mrs. Lowell quietly, as she took the pebble he had chosen and, laying her handkerchief on the beach, placed the green pebble upon it. "Now, see if we can find some that you can see the light through. There is one now. See, that one is almost transparent. It is translucent. That is what translucent means. Isn't it a pretty word--and a pretty stone? Hold it up to your eye." The boy obeyed, a slight look of interest coming into his face. Mrs. Lowell studying him realized what an attractive face his might be. It was as if the promising bud of a flower had been blighted in mid-opening. "Let us put all the best pebbles on my handkerchief and take them home with us. Have you a father and mother, Bertie?" "No." "Do you remember them?" The boy hesitated and glanced into the kind face bent toward him. Its expression gave the lonely lad a strange sensation. A lump came into his throat and moisture suddenly gathered in his eyes. He swallowed the lump. "Uncle Nick doesn't want me--to talk about her," he stammered. "Your mother, do you mean, Bertie?" The tender tone was too much for the boy. He had to swallow faster and nodded. In a minute two drops ran down his cheeks. He ignored them and began throwing pebbles into the water.