"Mother insists upon talking to Jim. There's no help for it; he
must come."

Weatherby dropped the mare's hoof and raised a breathless
question to Cynthia's face, while Lila asked quickly:

"Does she know?"

"Know what?" demanded Cynthia, turning grimly upon her. "Of
course she knows that Jim is his father's son."

The young man rose and laid the hammer down on the overturned
barrel; then he led the mare back to her stall, and coming out
again, washed his hands in a tub of water by the door.

"Well, I'm ready," he observed quietly. "Shall I go in alone?"

"Oh, we don't ask that of you," said Lila, laughing. "Come; I'll
take you." She slipped her hand under his arm and they went gaily
toward the house, leaving Cynthia to pick up the horseshoe nails
lying loose upon the ground.

Hearing the young man's step on the threshold, Mrs. Blake turned
her head with a smile of pleasant condescension and stretched out
her delicate yellowed hand.

"This is Jim Weatherby, mother," said Lila in her softest voice.
"Cynthia says you want to talk to him."