“They are about the finest hands I have ever seen,” he replied. “You can’t see yourself, sister of mine.” “I do not care very much to see myself,” she said. “If I had not a maid I expect I should look very shiftless, for I don’t care to look in a mirror. My only mirror used to be a stream of water in summer,” she added, “and a corner of a looking-glass got from the Hudson’s Bay fort in the winter.” “Well, you are missing a lot of enjoyment,” he said, “if you do not use your mirror much. The rest of us can appreciate what you would see there.” She reached out and touched his arm. “Do you like to look at me?” she questioned, with a strange simple candour. For the first time in many a year, Richard Armour blushed like a girl fresh from school. The question had come so suddenly, it had gone so quickly into a sensitive corner of his nature, that he lost command of himself for the instant, yet had little idea why the command was lost. He touched the fingers on his arm affectionately. “Like to look at you--like to look at you? Why, of course we all like to look at you. You are very fine and handsome and interesting.” “Richard,” she said, drawing her hands away, “is that why you like to look at me?” He had recovered himself. He laughed in his old hearty way, and said: “Yes, yes; why, of course! Come, let us go and see the boy,” he added, taking her arm and hurrying her down the steps. “Come and let us see Richard Joseph, the pride of all the Armours.” She moved beside him in a kind of dream. She had learned much since she came to Greyhope, and yet she could not at that moment have told exactly why she asked Richard the question that had confused him, nor did she know quite what lay behind the question. But every problem which has life works itself out to its appointed end, if fumbling human fingers do not meddle with it. Half the miseries of this world are caused by forcing issues, in every problem of the affections, the emotions, and the soul. There is a law working with which there should be no tampering, lest in foolish interruption come only confusion and disaster. Against every such question there should be written the one word, “Wait.” Richard Armour stooped over the child. “A beauty,” he said, “a perfect little gentleman. Like Richard Joseph Armour there is none,” he added. “Whom do you think he looks like, Richard?” she asked. This was a question she had never asked before since the child was born. Whom the child looked like every one knew; but within the past year and a half Francis Armour’s name had seldom been mentioned, and never in connection with the child. The child’s mother asked the question with a strange quietness. Richard answered it without hesitation. “The child looks like Frank,” he said. “As like him as can be.” “I am glad,” she said, “for all your sakes.”