"All right, Jimmie," I murmured faintly, as he clung to me; "go ahead." Tightly clutching me about the neck and nestling his face against mine, he brought forth with childish throaty sweetness the few words to the creative Spirit that mankind the world over, in one form or another, addresses as Our Father. "And God," he concluded with brilliant triumph in his eyes, "bless Mummy and Uncle Ranny." Nothing that I can remember has ever moved me as that child moved me. Like St. Catherine of Genoa at her decisive confessional I seemed to receive a profound inner wound by that child’s act, tender and bitter and sweet, that I never desire to heal. For the moment Laura and I were nearer to being one than ever we had been in her lifetime. Nevermore shall I forget the sweetness and fragrance of that little child and his warm nestling faith in me. And I am planning to cast him off. "Come, now," interposed Alicia, as though breaking a spell. "One more hug," cried Jimmie, with the arrogance of righteousness. And suiting his action to his words, he clambered down with engaging clumsiness from my knees and padded toward Alicia. Once more I was alone with my thoughts. Can it be that some instinct in the child whose heart is still imbedded in his mother’s had made him seek the one person who had been nearest his mother? I cannot say, I cannot say. Oh, God—and I must send him and the others, Laura’s children, away, away among strangers! There seems to be no other way out. I have been turning idly the pages of books in a way bookish people have, seeking for inspiration, for some word of guidance. Brunetto tells me on the word of St. Bernard, that tarnished gold is better than shining copper; and that the wild ass brays once every hour and thus makes an excellent timepiece for his savage neighborhood. But nothing of this casts a glimmer of light upon my dilemma. Rabelais keeps shouting from his yellow page, "_fais ce que vondras_." But what is it that I desire to do? Ah, I know what I desire to do! There is counsel in the old books, after all. I will have in the girl Alicia, and see what I can glean. She was brought up without kith or kin of her own. And though an institution is more of a machine than a good school, still those who had the rearing of her were total strangers. There might be some gleam of suggestion in that. Alicia has been here. "Come, child, sit down," I invited her, observing that she still displayed a tendency to stand in awe of me. "I wish to ask you some questions." But her tense little face was still haunted by a vague fear. "It’s about the children," I added, and she seemed somewhat more at ease on the edge of her chair. "How long were you at that Home—in Sullivan County?" I began, grinning by way of ingratiating myself. "Ever since I can remember, sir," she answered. "Were they kind to you?" "Oh, yes, sir." "How kind?—What did they do for you?"