"There, darling, see, I am smiling," she says, her faded eyes lighting up through a mist of tears. "I think it is very nice to have a Granny, and I want to keep her always." "That is impossible, dearest. You must be a good boy, and not ask mother questions." Eleanor brings him sweets and cakes, which he readily devours, sharing them with the dog, who jumps up, startling Mrs. Blum, on whose knees young Tombo is seated. "You must trot home soon," says Eleanor, glancing nervously at the time, and fearing every moment lest Elizabeth should sweep in like a tragedy queen, and snatch her offspring from Mrs. Blum's arms. "Yes, soon," sighs his grandmother, holding him as if she will never let him go. She detaches a small gold locket from her chain, in which is a lock of Elizabeth's hair. "You may keep this darling," she murmurs, "to remember Granny by." She looks tenderly at the pale, flaxen lock of hair, which grew on little Beth's baby forehead. "Don't lose it, Tombo, for it is very precious--one of Granny's dearest treasures. Mother will recognise it and know the hair inside. Tell her you must keep it always, because she played with it as a little girl." The boy gazes in awe at the locket. "Didn't it cost a lot of money?" he asks. Mrs. Blum smiles at the remark. "You are an odd child," she says, placing him on the ground. "Have you nothing you can give Granny?" whispers Eleanor in his ear. Tombo draws a small whistle from his pocket and carries it with an air of triumph to Mrs. Blum. "This is for you, Granny. It is all my own, so don't be afraid. Quartey M'Ba gave it to me for a dead 'minah' I found in the jungle." She takes the little whistle tremblingly. "Granny will wear it on her chain," she says, "in the place of her locket, she will keep it quite as carefully." Then she kisses the child, and pushes him from her, covering her face with her hands that she may not see him go. Eleanor leads Tombo away, and watches him run down the hill--he is clasping the gold locket safely in both hands. * * * * * Mrs. Blum has departed blessing Eleanor, and pouring such overwhelming gratitude into her ears that solitude is a welcome relief. "Poor soul," she thinks. "Shall I ever come to _that_?" A step is heard on the verandah, the rustle of a dress, and Elizabeth Kachin stands before her. She is paler than of yore, her eyes a trifle softer. The hard lips part in greeting, she takes Eleanor by both hands. "You are a good woman," she says, with an admiring glance. "I cannot tell you how high your great charity has placed you in my esteem and regard. To think you actually laid aside all your natural feelings of repulsion and harboured such a woman out of charity." "Merely an act of plain humanity," replies Eleanor.