"M-m-m!" mused Grismer between thin, dry lips. "It’s rather too early to be sure, Cleland. You never can tell what traits are going to reveal themselves in the young. There’s no knowing what may crop out in them. No—no telling; no telling. Of course, sometimes they turn out well. M-m-m’yes, quite well. That’s our experience in the Charities Association. But, more often, they—don’t!—to be perfectly frank with you—they _don’t_ turn out very well." Cleland’s features had grown alarmingly red. "I’m not apprehensive," he managed to say. "Oh, no, of course, it’s no use worrying. Time will show. M-m-m! Yes. It will all be made manifest in time. M-m-m’yes! Time’ll show, Cleland—time’ll show. But—I knew my sister," he added sadly, "and I am afraid—very much afraid." At the entrance for motors they parted. Grismer got into a shabby limousine driven by an unkempt chauffeur. "Going my way, Cleland?" "Thanks, I have my car." "In that case," returned Grismer, "I shall take my leave of you. Good-bye, and God be with you," he said piously. "And good-bye to _you_, my pretty little miss," he added graciously, distorting his parchment features into something resembling a smile. "Tell your papa to bring you to see me sometime when my boy is home from school; and," he added rather vaguely, "we’ll have a nice time and play games. _Good-bye_!" "Who was that man, Daddy?" asked Stephanie, as their own smart little car drew up. "Oh, nobody—just a man with whom I have a—a sort of acquaintance," replied Cleland. "Was that his boy who kept looking at me all the while in the station, Daddy?" "I didn’t notice. Come, dear, jump in." So he took Stephanie back to the house where instruction in the three R’s awaited her, with various extras and embellishments suitable for the education of the daughter of John William Cleland. The child crept up close to him in the car, holding tightly to his arm with both of hers. "I’m lonely for Jim," she whispered. "I——" but speech left her suddenly in the lurch. "You’re going to make me proud of you, darling; aren’t you?" he murmured, looking down at her. The child merely nodded. Grief for the going of her first boy had now left her utterly dumb. *CHAPTER VII* There is a serio-comic, yet charming, sort of tragedy—fortunately only temporary—in the attachment of a little girl for an older boy. It often bores him so; and she is so daintily in earnest. The one adores, tags after, and often annoys; the other, if chivalrous, submits. It began this way between Stephanie Quest and Jim Cleland. It continued. She realized with awe the discrepancy in their ages; he was amiable enough to pretend to waive the discrepancy. And his condescension almost killed her.