Cecil made no answer. He was pretending to be absorbed in a book. His mother relapsed into silence, watching curiously the man and child coming up the maple avenue, over the drifts of autumn leaves that strewed the ground with a gold and crimson carpet. He was a good-looking man well dressed in a black suit, with the air and manner of a gentleman. The child he led by the hand was about five years old, daintily dressed in crimson cashmere and a broad white Leghorn hat, beneath which fell soft golden curls, framing a pretty, tear-stained little face. Mrs. Laurens saw the man and child going up the steps, and a sudden vague suspicion darted into her mind. “That strange child, good Heaven, what if Molly Trueheart has sent Cecil’s child home at last!” she muttered. The door-bell clanged loudly, making her start with excitement. The next moment the library door opened and a servant handed in a card. Mrs. Laurens glanced at Cecil. He was paying no attention to the little by-play. She glanced down again at the card, and read: “_John Keith to see Mrs. Laurens._” “Gemmon in de parlor, mistis,” said the old colored man, and Mrs. Laurens followed him without a word. She went along the wide hall, shaking with emotion. “Oh, heavenly powers, the man must be mad to come here. Cecil will murder him,” she muttered, in terror. “But I was right. It is the child, as my heart foreboded. That woman must be dead, or she would not have been brought here.” She opened the door and went in, a pale, handsome, haughty old lady in black silk, before whose severe aspect John Keith, sensitive as ever, recoiled in dismay. “You wished to see me, sir?” frigidly. “I beg your pardon. There is some mistake,” he faltered. “There is no mistake, I am Mrs. Laurens,” impatiently. “Then you are Cecil Laurens’ mother?” “Yes.” “I wished to see Mrs. Cecil Laurens!” She recoiled from him in anger and reproach. “How can you speak that name here?” she exclaimed. “You of all men ought to know that there is no longer a Mrs. Cecil Laurens! Or, perhaps, you think my son has married again?” The handsome man before her sank back into his seat like one stunned. His face paled, his voice trembled as he said: “Madame, I do not understand. Do you mean to tell me that your son’s wife is dead! poor, pretty Molly--dead?” mournfully. “I thought you came here to tell us _that_?” pointedly. “Whose child is that?” with a loathing gesture. “Mine, madame,” proudly. “And hers, Molly Trueheart’s!” exclaimed Mrs. Laurens scornfully. He looked at her, wondering if she could be mad. “Mrs. Laurens, answer me one question if you can,” he said impatiently. “Where is Mrs. Cecil Laurens if she is not dead?” “I do not know. Cecil--we all thought she was with you,” hopelessly. “My God, Mrs. Laurens, I have never seen sweet little Molly since her wedding night! Why should she come to me?”