"I don't know. Everybody was angry with her, all the rich people, because she--she ran away to marry him. Then she was left all--alone with me and--and she sold pictures and we were--" The voice stopped. "Yes, I know you were happy. Then when she went away your uncle took you?" "Yes, and Cora." "And wasn't Cora kind to you?" Bertie shook his head. "I don't know," he said. It seemed as if the recollection of his uncle's housekeeper made him retreat at once into the protective shell. "Just let me ask you one more question. Your Uncle Nick was here at the island last summer. He didn't bring you with him. Where were you then?" "Home." "Alone?" "No, with Cora." "But wouldn't Cora like you to draw a pretty picture for her?" "No. She knows Uncle Nick would hit her." "What did you do all summer?" "Helped Cora. Then, when she was drunk, I went in the park. Sometimes I slept there." Mrs. Lowell shook her head. "I'm glad your uncle brought you this time." "Cora wouldn't stay. They had the worst fight of all. They were always fighting." "Bertie, dear," said Mrs. Lowell tenderly, "try to know all the time that God is taking care of you and leading you. We know He will. Uncle Nick must know it, too, sometime." "Know what?" exclaimed the boy with a start. "That God takes care of His children. Your uncle is one, and I am one, and you are one. We shall have to keep some secrets from Uncle Nick until he grows kinder and knows that the only way to be happy is to love. I should like to know your mother's people." "Uncle Nick says they're all dead." "Do you know their name?" "No." "Think, Bertie. What was your mother's name?" "Helen." "What else? Can't you remember--the name on her paintings, perhaps?" The boy was silent and his brow was puzzled. He reached into a pocket. "I brought my book," he said, drawing forth a worn and much-thumbed pamphlet. "I'm so glad you did," she returned. He did not offer it to her, but she looked over his shoulder as he turned the leaves of the catalogue of an exhibition of paintings. "There are two of my mother's," he said. He indicated the small reproductions of two landscapes and Mrs. Lowell studied them with interest. "I can see that they must be charming," she said. "Have you any of her pictures?" "There was one," said the boy, and he had to wait for a time before he could add: "Uncle Nick sold it." "Let us see if there may be a list of the exhibitors," said Mrs. Lowell. "May I take it a minute?" Bertie yielded the pamphlet and she turned to the front of the book. Yes, there was the list and her eye quickly caught the name: Helen Loring Gayne. "Your mother's name was Loring, then." "It's my name, too. Herbert Loring Gayne." "Where did her people live, Bertie?" "In Boston. I can always remember that because--because--when Uncle Nick is angry at what I--I do, he says don't try any Boston on me, and then--then I know he means my mother, because he--he didn't like--"