There was a rustic bench near by, and Galt sat down on it. He found himself unable to formulate a satisfactory reply, and he was going to let the remark pass unnoticed, but Lionel came forward now more confidently, and sat on the end of the bench. A thrill akin to that which he had felt when he discovered the identity of the child passed over Galt. There was an indescribable something in the boy's great eyes so like his mother's, in the artistic slenderness of his hands, in his exquisite profile, that dug deep into the soul of the man who sat there self-convicted of the crime of wilful desertion. “Yes, I'm sure something was wrong that day,” Lionel said, tentatively. “I can always 'tell when mamma is angry at me, and I knew you were, for you didn't say good-bye. The others didn't, either, but I didn't care for them. I like Doctor Wynn, and I like you, but that is all, except Granny and my mother.” “You like me, and why?” Galt questioned, almost under his breath. “Oh, I don't know, but I do. I did when I first saw you looking up at me in that tree, and then when you held me in your lap. I wanted to go to sleep there, it felt so good--your arms are so fine and strong. Doctor Wynn says your father was a great soldier, and that you have his sword and a picture of him. Oh, I should love to see them! I'd like to be a soldier. Some day, if I am a good boy, will you let me see the sword?” “Why, yes, you may come--_now_, if you wish.” “You are joking, aren't you?” Lionel asked, in surprise. “No, I'm in earnest. Come on!” “Really, do you mean it?” “Why, of course. Come on!” They started toward the house side by side. Suddenly Lionel remarked, timidly, “You haven't said you like me yet, but I suppose you do, or you wouldn't let me go with you in your house.” “Yes, I like you--of course I do,” Galt answered, lamely and abashed. “Very, very much, or just a little--which is it?” “As much as any boy I ever met; there, will that do you, little man?” “Have you met many? That's the question,” the boy laughed out, impulsively, and then his face settled into gravity as he eagerly waited. “Yes, a great many,” Galt answered, as he wondered over the child's peculiar persistency. Dearing had said he was supersensitive. Could the trait be an unremovable birth-mark of the mother's unhappiness when overwhelmed with the sense of utter desertion? If so, then there was physical proof of the Biblical statement that the sins of fathers were visited on their children. Galt shuddered and avoided the appealing face upturned to his. Again he heard the musical voice, so like an echo out of the dreamy, accusing past, rising to him. “If you did like me, it looks like you would take my hand. I wish you would.”