distant towns and hamlets, in the valley below, shone as sparkling jewels
on the inky, velvet robe that, fold on fold, lay over the landscape.

When the two had smoked in silence, for some time, the artist said slowly,
"You knew my mother very well, did you not, Mr. Lagrange?"

"We were children together, Aaron." As he spoke, the man's deep voice was
gentle, as always, when the young man's mother was mentioned.

Again, for a little, neither spoke. As they sat looking away to the
mountains, each seemed occupied with his own thoughts. Yet each felt that
the other, to a degree, understood what he, himself, was thinking.

Once more, the artist broke the silence,--facing his mother's friend with
quiet resolution,--as though he felt himself forced to speak but knew not
exactly how to begin. "Did you know her well--after--after my father's
death--and while I was abroad?"

The other bowed his head--"Yes."

"Very well?"

"Very well."

As if at loss for words, Aaron King still hesitated. "Mr. Lagrange," he
said, at last, "there are some things about--about mother--that I would
like to tell you--that I think she would want me to tell you, under the
circumstances."

"Yes," said Conrad Lagrange, gently.