fluttering hand to
stay her steps.

"Do not go very far, Mrs. Brown," she said. "I may need you at any
moment. Step into the conservatory and wait for further orders there."

With a bow of assent Dorothy glided from the room. She was sorry that
Mrs. Garner had requested her to remain in the conservatory, for she
knew full well that more or less of the conversation between mother and
son must needs reach her ears.

The door had no sooner closed behind the slim, retreating figure ere
Mrs. Garner turned quickly to her son, who was now pacing up and down
the breakfast-room, with his arms folded tightly over his breast, his
head crested proudly erect and a strange look in his eyes.

"Well, Jack." she said, at length, seeing that he was in no hurry to
break the silence, "what is the matter? You used to tell your mother all
your troubles when you were a little boy. Come to me with them now.
Something has happened to disturb you greatly. I can see it in your
face. Tell me what it is, my boy. Tell your mother what annoys you, my
dear."

"You are right, mother; something _has_ happened to disturb me," he
said. "I ought not to worry you with it, but if you care to hear it you
shall know all. You remember a conversation we had several months ago
about--about little Dorothy, mother?"

"We _did_ have a conversation about that girl, but I do not remember
specially all that was said."

"You remember that I told you then, mother, that--that I still loved
Dorothy, and if I ever came across the man who lured her away from me it
would go hard with him or with me."

"I was in hopes that you were getting over that nonsense," she said,
"especially since your betrothal to poor Jessie."

"I told you then, as I tell you now, mother, that I shall never forget
Dorothy nor cease to love her. But for the story I have to tell: An hour
since, as I was taking an early morning stroll to get a cigar, a little
incident happened which caused me to pause and to quite forget my
errand. It was only a little lame boy singing for pennies on the street,
and the song that he sang touched my heart, as it has not been touched
for long months, and thrilled every fiber of my being with a sharp, keen
pain.

"You have heard the same song, mother. You remember how I rose and
abruptly left the room when some young girl commenced to sing it in our
drawing-room only a few short weeks ago. To-day I listened to it,
spellbound; and the boy's accompaniment on the