matter of course.

"I got lost, Colonel Musgrave," the child composedly announced. "I
walked ever so far, and the gate wasn't where we left it. And the roads
kept turning and twisting so, it seemed I'd never get anywhere. I don't
like being lost when it's getting dark and there's so many dead people
'round, do you?"

The colonel was moved to disapproval. "Young man, I suppose your poor
deserted mother is looking for you everywhere, and has probably torn out
every solitary strand of hair she possesses by this time."

"I reckon she is," the boy assented. The topic did not appear to be in
his eyes of preeminent importance.

Then Anne Charteris said, "Harry," and her voice was such that Rudolph
Musgrave wheeled with amazement in his face.

The boy had gone to her complaisantly, and she stood now with one hand
on either of his shoulders, regarding him. Her lips were parted, but
they did not move at all.

"You are Mrs. Pendomer's boy, aren't you?" said Anne Charteris, in a
while. She had some difficulty in articulation.

"Yes'm," Harry assented, "and we come here 'most every Wednesday, and,
please, ma'am, you're hurtin' me."

"I didn't mean to--dear," the woman added, painfully. "Don't interfere
with me, Rudolph Musgrave! Your mother must be very fond of you, Harry.
I had a little boy once. I was fond of him. He would have been eleven
years old last February."

"Please, ma'am, I wasn't eleven till April, and I ain't tall for my age,
but Tubby Parsons says----"

The woman gave an odd, unhuman sound. "Not until April!"

"Harry," said Colonel Musgrave then, "an enormous whale is coming down
the river in precisely two minutes. Perhaps if you were to look through
the palings of that fence you might see him. I don't suppose you would
care to, though?"

And Harry strolled resignedly toward the fence. Harry Pendomer did not
like this funny lady who had hurt, frightened eyes. He did not believe
in the whale, of course, any more than he did in Santa Claus. But like
most children, he patiently accepted the fact that grown people are
unaccountable overlords appointed by some vast _betise_, whom, if only
through prudential motives, it is preferable to humor.

V

Colonel Musgrave stood now upon the other side of John Charteris's
grave--just in the spot that was reserved for her own occupancy some
day.

"You are ill, Anne. You are not fit to be out. Go home."

"I had a little boy once," she said. "'But that's al