The figure that he made in his outgrown trousers and faded old sweater, trying to control himself, moved his companion, and the sign of his emotion encouraged her. Perhaps he was not so stupid as he seemed. "I think it would be nice to make a collection of stones while we are here," she said. "I'm sure Miss Burridge will let us have a glass jar. See this one." Bertie dashed the back of his hand across his eyes and turned to look at the small pebble she offered. "Isn't that a little beauty?" "I--" "Careful!" his companion smiled as she said it and pretended to frown at him in such a merry way that the hint of a smile appeared on his face. "Uncle Nick likes to have me say I don't know. He says it's honest." "Well, no two people could be more different than Uncle Nick and me. I want you to _know_, and I want you to say so, because it's what we all have a right to. It is what God wants of us; and, Bertie, if you ever feel like talking about your mother to me, you must do so." The boy glanced up at her, then down at the pebbles which he pulled over in silence. "Where do you and your uncle live?" "In Newark." "Do you go to school there?" "No." "Where do you go to school?" "Nowhere." "Where did you learn to read and write then, Bertie?" "In school. I went when--when _she_ was here." "Your mother?" "Yes." "And have you brothers and sisters?" "No. Just Uncle Nick." "Does he give you studies to learn?" Mrs. Lowell's catechism was given in such gentle, interested tones that the answers had come easily up to now. Now the boy hesitated, and she began to expect the stereotyped answer which he had learned was most pleasing, and the easiest way out with his uncle. "I--" he began, and caught her look. "Sometimes," he added. "But Uncle Nick says it isn't any use--and I don't care anyway, because--she isn't here." Again Mrs. Lowell could see the spasm in his throat and face. It passed and left the usual dull listlessness of expression. "Your mother was very sweet," said Mrs. Lowell quietly, and some acknowledgment lighted his eyes as he suddenly looked up at her. "I know that because she made such a deep impression on the little boy she left. How old were you, Bertie, in that happy time when she was here?" "I--it was Christmas, and there have been--five Christmases since. I remember them on my fingers, and one hand is gone." Mrs. Lowell met his shifting look with the steady, kind gaze which was so fraught with sympathy that his forlorn, neglected soul turned towards its warmth like a struggling flower to the sun. "I'll tell you what I think would be beautiful, Bertie," she said. "And it is for you to do everything you do for her, just as if she were here, or as if you were going to see her to-morrow. Did she ever talk to you about God?" "Yes. I said prayers that Christmas--and I got a sled." "Do you ever say prayers now?" "No. It--it doesn't do any good if you--if you live with Uncle Nick. He--he won't let God give you--anything."