The boy seemed to be quite as much surprised to see Hammond as Hammond was to see him. He stood in the doorway, frankly staring at the visitor. Hammond had time to notice that he wore a black cloth band on the sleeve of his plain homespun jacket. “Come in, my boy; don’t be afraid,” he said, with that awkward patronage by which grown-up people render themselves so supremely ridiculous to the intelligent modern child. “I’m not afraid,” the boy replied, boldly, advancing into the room. “Why should I be afraid of you?” It was not a question which the man found it easy to reply to. He smiled, and then asked, rather lamely: “And what might your name be?” The justly offended youth retorted mercilessly: “It might be Napoleon Bonaparte, but, as it happens, it’s Robert Mainwaring Yorke.” Hammond felt that he had put himself in the wrong. He tried to address the boy like one on his own level. “I called here to see Miss Belle Yorke. She is your sister, I suppose?” Robert Mainwaring Yorke had not yet lost his sense of irritation. “Well, you don’t think she’s my mother, do you?” he replied, with severity. “She’s my eldest sister,” he condescended to explain. “Oh, then there are several of you?” said Hammond, wonderingly. It was the first time he had ever heard of Belle Yorke’s family. “What do you think?” returned the boy. “There’s Lizzie--that’s my second sister; and Arthur--he’s a year younger than me; and Reggie--he’s a year younger; and the kid--he’s only four. Anything else you’d like to know?” “And who is Mr. Yorke?” asked Hammond. “I’m Mr. Yorke.” “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Hammond began, and then, catching sight of the black band, stopped, as though he had bitten his tongue. “Father’s dead,” Mr. Yorke explained, unconcernedly. “He died last winter, and I’m the head of the family.” “I didn’t know; I beg your pardon. Your sister is not in mourning.” “He wasn’t her father. Belle’s only my half-sister. Her father died when she was a kid.” “I see. And I suppose your mother married again?” “I suppose so, or I shouldn’t be here.” A fresh thought occurred to Hammond. If what the boy said was true, he did not even know Belle Yorke’s real name. He was on the point of putting a question to the boy, but restrained himself. He had no right to seek that information from any one but Belle Yorke herself. Mr. Yorke seized the opportunity to put in a word for the absent. “Mind you, I look on Belle as just as good as a whole sister,” he remarked. “I don’t make any difference.” Hammond smiled. “She is kind to you, then?” At least he might have the pleasure of listening to Belle Yorke’s praise. “Well, I don’t know that you can call it kind,” said the boy, with another touch of resentment at the implied inferiority. “She’s just like any other sister. She knits my stockings for me, and does whatever I want her to. She’s not a bad sort.”