“There are two kinds of stories, and they are both bad,” Dora went on, desperate over the delay of the divulgence which she thought could mean so little to the child and yet so very much to her. “It is bad to tell a lie, and it is bad to keep back anything at all from your mother, because she is more to you than all the rest of the world. She is your _mother_; she works for you; she loves you; she would die for you; and if anybody--no matter who it is--were to want you to keep a secret from her, it would be wrong--very, very wrong. It would make your mother very unhappy; it would make her cry long after you were asleep to know that her little son was keeping anything from her.” She felt the little white-robed figure quiver. He raised himself on his elbow and slowly sat up; his young face, in the dim light, was full of struggle. “Is that so, mother?” he asked. “Yes, darling,” she answered. “There can be no secrets at all between a mother and her boy. She must tell _him_ everything, and he must not keep a thing back from _her_. How did you happen to meet--Mr. Galt this afternoon?” “_That's_ what you want to know?” “Yes, dear--that's all. Surely, there can be no reason why your own dear mother should not know a little thing like that. Surely he--Mr. Galt--couldn't have told you not to tell me?” The child was still for a moment. He folded his little arms over his knee, clinched his hands, and sat avoiding her insistent eyes. “Wait!” he said, finally. “I want to go to Granny.” “You want to go to Granny, and leave your mother?” she asked, deeply perplexed. . “Just a minute,” he said, as he crawled over her and got down on the floor. “I'll be back. I'll be right back, mother, dear.” “It is something you will tell her, but can't tell me!” Dora cried out, in half-assumed reproach. “Why, _Lionel?_” “I'll be back,” he said, evasively. “There is no hurry.” And she heard the patter of his bare feet along the corridor to his grandmother's room. Mrs. Barry always retired early, and she was now in her bed, but very wide awake. Something in the incident had set her to thinking on new lines. “Can it be? Can it be?” she kept asking herself, in great excitement. “Why didn't I think of it?” “Granny!” she heard Lionel call out from the dark, doorway. “Yes, dear, what is it?” she asked. “I want to come to your bed a minute--just a minute.” “All right, come on, darling; don't stumble over anything.” She heard him groping through the dark, and then felt his little hands on her wrinkled face. “Granny,” he said, a tremor in his voice, “you told me if anybody ever said anything mean about my mother, that I must not let her know about it--never at all.” “Yes, darling, that would be a nice, brave little man, for you wouldn't want to make her sad, would you?”