“I shall certainly be hoping that somebody will get really sick under this roof,” he laughed, evasively, “for I'd like to get a whack at your roll of cash, but so far my dealings have been only with your mother, and she doesn't make it interesting. She was good to me when I was a boy. I used to crawl over the back fence when she was making jelly and jam in the kitchen, and I collected some fees then that did me more good than any I have since received. She performed the first surgical operation on me, too, that I ever had. I was barefoot, and while trying to hide from some other boys I stuck a rusty nail through my big toe. She heard me yelling and came to my assistance. She extracted the nail, washed out my wound, filled it with turpentine--the only household antiseptic used in that day--and bound it up for me. I have always believed that she saved me from lockjaw.” “The opportunity to earn money means more to me than you might think, Wynn,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Do you know what my dream of dreams is? It is to be able to go to Paris, and take Lionel and my mother. She has always wanted to go, because papa was buried there. Do you know, I feel that away off in a free, art-loving country like France I could rear my child to manhood without his ever knowing about his--his history. It seems to me that God has given me this talent for that particular purpose. The only trouble is the delay. You see, it may be years before I can save enough, and then it might be too late.” “I see, I understand,” Dearing said, gravely; “and you'd never come back to old Stafford again, I suppose?” “Oh no,” she answered; “all this would have to be laid aside forever.” “I shouldn't like to see you go,” he said. “I have--you see, I have become attached to Lionel--he and I are great chums. But if you have decided, and wish it so very much, why not? Look here, Dora, I have money lying idle in the bank. I have absolutely no need for it, and--” “Oh no!” she cried. “It is lovely of you to offer it, but I couldn't think of taking it. I couldn't--I really-couldn't!” “Not from your big brother?” he asked, his pleading eyes on her. “No, not even from you, you dear boy. It is _my_ problem, Wynn, and I must work it out alone--all alone.” They had gone back to the porch, and the sight of the extensive grounds around his house prompted him to say: “I know now why you don't realize Lionel's need for more fresh air. You have that absorbing occupation, and it keeps you from putting yourself in the boy's place, as you might otherwise do.” “Do you think so?” she asked, quite gravely. “It may be true, Wynn, and yet what am I to do? I really can't bear to have him running about, meeting other children. I could never answer his questions--never, never! Some one would have to watch him, and mother and I both shrink from going out in--in public.”