The child laid her thin, red, water-marred fingers in his gloved hand. He retained them, and drew her nearer. "You’ve had a rather tough deal, Steve, haven’t you?" The child was silent, standing with head lowered, her bronzed brown hair hanging and shadowing shoulders and face. "Do you go to school, Steve?" "Yes, sir." "Not to-day?" "No, sir. It’s Saturday." "Oh, yes. I forgot. What do you learn in school?" "Things—writing—reading." "Do you like school?" "Yes, sir." "What do you like best?" "Dancing." "Do they teach _that_? What kind of dancing do you learn to do?" "Fancy dancing—folk-dances. And I like the little plays that teacher gets up for us." "Do you like any other of your studies?" he asked drily. "Droring." "Drawing?" "Yes, sir," she replied, flushing painfully. "Oh. So they teach you to draw? Who instructs you?" "Miss Crowe. She comes every week. We copy picture cards and things." "So you like to draw, Steve," nodded Cleland absently, thinking of his only son, who liked to write, and who, God willing, would have every chance to develop his bent in life. Then, still thinking of his only son, he looked up into the grey eyes of this little stranger. As fate would have it, she smiled at him. And, looking at her in silence he felt the child-hunger gnawing in his heart—felt it, and for the first time, vaguely surmised what it really was that had so long ailed him. But the idea, of course, seemed hopeless, impossible! It was not fair to his only son. Everything that he had was his son’s—everything he had to give—care, sympathy, love, worldly possessions. These belonged to his son alone. "Are you happy here with these kind people, Steve?" he asked hastily. "Yes, sir." But though his conscience should have instantly acquitted him, deep in his lonely heart the child-hunger gnawed, unsatisfied. If only there had been other children of his own—younger ones to play with, to have near him in his solitude, to cuddle, to caress, to fuss over as he and his dead wife had fussed over their only baby!—— "Steve?" "Sir?" "You are sure you will be quite happy here?" "Yes, sir." "Would you——" A pause; and again he looked up into the child’s face, and again she smiled. "Steve, I never had a little girl. It’s funny, isn’t it?" "Yes, sir." A silence. "Would you like to—to go to a private school?" The child did not understand. So he told her about such schools and the little girls who went to them. She seemed deeply interested; her grey eyes were clear and seriously intelligent, and very, very intently fixed on him in the effort to follow and understand what he was saying.