The boy stared at her, unmoved. "I pity him because he doesn't know how to make you happy." "You don't need to--to take any trouble," was the stolid reply. "It isn't a trouble. I like you. I like to have you with me. I went up to the farm this morning--the haunted farm." "Did--did you see anything?" "Yes. Supposing we go down to the beach and I'll tell you about it. You shall carry two cushions for us; then if you want to take a nap you can do so while I read." "I would rather--rather be alone." Mrs. Lowell met his wretched eyes with her irresistible smile which had in it selflessness, love, and courage. "No, you wouldn't, dear boy. Besides, it is an impossibility. We are never alone. You know the Father we talked about the other day, the One who showed your mother how to love you. He is with us all the time, and no one and nothing can separate us from Him, no matter what seems to be." "Could I see Him if I--if I died? Because I'd like to--to die and see--my mother." "You will see her at the right time," said Mrs. Lowell. "You have a great deal to do for her first. Were you going upstairs to sleep? No doubt you are sleepy after all that mowing. It was very kind of you to do it for Veronica." "I didn't do it for her." There was no stammering in the declaration. "She thought I did, but I didn't." Mrs. Lowell smiled again and nodded. "I understand," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't know your mother. I believe she would like you to go outdoors with me now." "You don't--don't need to--to have me. I'm--I'm all right." Mrs. Lowell could see the wound throb. "I know I don't need to. I should think you could see that I really want you." He hesitated and looked away. "Now," she went on, "I will go up to my room and get some cushions and my books and we will have a nice read or a nice snooze, and perhaps get some more stones for our collection. Perhaps you have some book you would like to bring." "I haven't any books--except a paper one." "Bring it," said Mrs. Lowell with interest. "I would like to see it. Let us meet down here in five minutes, then." She went up the stairs and the boy followed. When she came down again, the corridor and living-room were empty. Perhaps the lad had decided against her plan after all. She sank down in a chair by the door and closed her eyes. "Dear Father," she prayed, "Thy will be done, and may my thought be ever ready to separate between the real and the unreal. Let me not be discouraged by the seeming, but may I remember every moment what Thy will is, and that Thine omnipotent Love is ever present. Let me reflect Thine intelligence and take my human footsteps wisely. Let me know that Thy Truth will uncover the error that is to be met, and that I cannot be dismayed, for Thou art with me, and underneath are the everlasting arms." Footsteps sounded on the uncarpeted stairs and she looked up and saw Bertie. "I thought I wouldn't come," he said. "Then I thought you--you might wait--"