DORA BARRY sat at her easel absorbed in the painting of a picture, though the afternoon light was fading from her canvas in a way that made the work difficult, when her mother came to the door and glanced in.

“I have kept a lookout for fully an hour,” she announced, “but I haven’t once seen Lionel. I am getting old and silly, I suppose, but I can’t keep from worrying.”

Dora got up quickly, her face full of alarm, and the two went to the window of the dining-room and stood looking out for a moment.

“There! Isn’t that—I see him!” Mrs. Barry cried out in relief. “Why, he is with Kenneth Galt! He has him in his arms. There!—don’t you see?—just beyond the row of cedars. Thank Heaven! we had our scare for nothing.”

But Dora, wide-eyed and astonished, was silent; her face was very grave. Her mother ran eagerly to the door to meet the child, but Dora remained as if rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the receding form of Galt.

“Why did he have him?” she whispered to herself. “What can it mean? He was treating him kindly, and gently, too. I could see it in his face. It was glowing as it used to glow when he was true to himself and to me. It looked like Lionel’s arm was round his neck. What can it mean?”

When the child had come in, Dora sat down and drew him into her lap and held him fondly to her breast. “Mother was frightened,” she said, cooingly, her lips on his brow. “She missed her little boy, and was afraid something had happened to him.”

“Oh, I’m all right, mother,” Lionel said. “I can take care of myself; you must never be afraid.”

“But how did you happen to be with Mr. Galt?” Mrs. Barry asked. “I didn’t know you knew him.”

“Why, why—” but Lionel went no further. He had never lied, and the plan his sense of honor had laid for him was difficult to execute. His grandmother repeated her question in more positive tones, but, with eyes downcast, he refused to answer.

“Let him alone, mother,” Dora said, her face rigid. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

“It doesn’t, eh?” the old woman exclaimed, in surprise. “Well, I think you both are acting queerly. There is no reason why Lionel should not tell us when and how he met Mr. Galt. I can see by his face that he is keeping something back.”

But Dora was holding the child’s head against her throbbing breast, and she threw an almost commanding glance at her mother.

“Let him alone now,” she said, firmly, and with such a sharp tone of finality that her mother stared at her in surprise and left the room.

That evening Dora prepared the child for bed. As she undressed him she scanned each piece of his clothing most carefully. She found a green smudge made from strong pressure against the turf in a most unexpected place, high up on the child’s back; she discovered the imprint of soiled fingers on the broad white collar, and remarked the inconsistency of this with Lionel’s immaculately clean hands; the necktie had been loose and awkwardly retied; and, most conspicuous of all, was the uncouth way the golden hair was dressed. She noted all these things without comment; but when the white bed-covers were turned down, and Lionel had said his prayers and crawled in, Dora lowered the lamp and reclined beside him. Outwardly she was calm. To the child’s observation, no new thing had happened in her even life, and yet her whole being was aflame, her soul panting in suspense.

“Mother’s little boy never has told her a story in all his life,” she began, as soothingly as if she were crooning him to sleep. “Isn’t that nice? Some little boys tell fibs to their mothers, but my boy has always told the truth, and mother is so glad.”

Lionel lay still. She kissed him softly and waited. At any other time his little arms and lips would have responded, and she marked well the change to-night. Lionel did not move or speak, but simply lay with his old-young gaze gravely fixed on the ceiling where the lamp-chimney had focussed a ring of light.

“You would tell your mother everything that ever happened to you, wouldn’t you, darling?” she said, shyly pressing her cheek against his. She felt him nod impulsively, but second thought seemed to seal his lips. His was a tender age at which to begin the defence of a wronged parent by pretext and concealment, but the burden was on his shoulders, and little Lionel was manfully doing his best.

“There are two kinds of stories, and they are both bad,” Dora went on, desperate over the delay of the divulgence which she thought could mean so little to the child and yet so very much to her. “It is bad to tell a lie, and it is bad to keep back anything at all from your mother, because she is more to you than all the rest of the world. She is your mother; she works for you; she loves you; she would die for you; and if anybody—no matter who it is—were to want you to keep a secret from her, it would be wrong—very, very wrong. It would make your mother very unhappy; it would make her cry long after you were asleep to know that her little son was keeping anything from her.”

She felt the little white-robed figure quiver. He raised himself on his elbow and slowly sat up; his young face, in the dim light, was full of struggle.

“Is that so, mother?” he asked.

“Yes, darling,” she answered. “There can be no secrets at all between a mother and her boy. She must tell him everything, and he must not keep a thing back from her. How did you happen to meet—Mr. Galt this afternoon?”

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