it upon his memory. The shorter one with the golden hair was evidently
Mac's mother, not only because she was the older, but became the child's
mischievous face was like a comic mask made in the semblance of her own
gentle features. Her companion was more striking. Taller and more richly
dressed, she carried the impression of distinctiveness, of achievement,
as if she were a person who had proved her right to exist. Gifford
Barrett's eyes lingered on her longer, at a loss to account for a
certain familiarity in her appearance. Where had he seen her before?
Both face and figure seemed known to him, other than in the relation of
Mac's Aunt Teddy.

"I saw the small boy again, to-day," he told his sister, that night.

"Who? Your little Mac?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I decline to assume any responsibility for him, Kate. He passes my
comprehension entirely. He looks like a cherub on a Della Robbia frieze
and converses like the king of the brownies. I expect to hear him quote
Arnold at any instant."

His sister laughed.

"I can't imagine who he can be," she said. "I wish you weren't going East
so soon, Giff, and we would go on a tour of investigation. Such a child
isn't likely to remain hid under a bushel; and, if I find him, I will let
you know all about him. What is it, Jack?" she added, as her husband
looked up from his paper with an exclamation of surprise.