“Nice little fellow,” Dr. Vessinger remarked propitiatingly. “Won’t you come here, little man?” “No, no!” the mother objected hastily. “Run away, Oscar. Ask Dora to take you to the Laurels. It will be shady and cool there.” The child looked steadily and curiously at the doctor. “Who is that gentleman, mamma?” he demanded. “Ha, ha, well said!” the doctor laughed. “He wants to know who your friends are, madam. He will manage _you_ one of these days. Come here, sir!” Instead of running forward at the doctor’s invitation, the child backed steadily into his mother’s dress, eying the stranger with dislike. Mrs. Simmons glanced up at the doctor, surprised and annoyed at his conduct. Did he not understand? How could he anger the child, perhaps provoke one of his frightful paroxysms? It was disagreeable in him to dwell thus on her misery, to play with the child. “Go away, Oscar,” she said, leading him away from the terrace. At the same moment Dr. Vessinger walked toward the mother and child. Oscar stood still, his limbs stiffening, his under lip trembling. Tears began to gather in the mother’s eyes. She was frightened, and she hated the imperious man. “Come, dear,” she urged. “Come with mamma. Be good and do as I want you to.” She had leaned down to him, and he threw one arm about her neck and drew her close to him, looking defiantly at the doctor. “Is he the man who makes you cry, mamma?” he asked. “Send him away. I will drive him away!” As the mother watched him, standing there with his head thrown back, the black curls falling on his brown neck, he recalled to her vividly his father. She had seen the man in something like the attitude of the child. Commanding, erect, noble, defiant,--so she had seen him and worshipped him during the months of their ardent first love. The little mite was like her lover born again. “Fiery little devil, isn’t he?” the doctor remarked, hesitating and disconcerted. “Looks as if he would like to smash me, stick a knife into me, or something. Handsome, though!” “I think you had better sit down,” Mrs. Simmons answered coldly. As the man stood irresolute, she added vehemently: “Why do you tease the child? Go back!” The doctor turned back to his chair sulkily. The mother kissed the boy’s face, gently loosening the grasp of the strong little arm about her neck. “Come, Oscar,” she whispered. “We will go together!” She led him from the terrace, he looking backward constantly and scowling at the unacceptable guest. “Send him away, mamma,” he said. “I don’t like him.” “Ssh, ssh,” his mother murmured reprovingly, seeking to soften his barbarian instincts. She was gone for what seemed to the doctor an interminable time, and when she returned there was something cold and severe in her pale face. Before she seated herself, she began to say what she had in mind: