Frederick patted the dog and smiled ingratiatingly at the boy. He was
looking down into a pair of dark eyes, eyes like his own, into the grave
face of a child asking why he was there.

The dog nuzzled the man's hand and fawned upon him, making in his throat
little noises of welcome.

Frederick held out his other hand.

"Won't you come, too, little boy?"

"I can't!... Mummy wouldn't like it. I don't know you."

"She won't mind, I'm sure," replied Frederick, his heart beating so hard
he could hear it. "Pete knows me, and I know your mother. Her name
is--is Tessibel.... Isn't it?"

The man could scarcely get that beloved name from between his lips.

"Yes, Tessibel is my mummy," said the boy. "You know my mummy, and my
Uncle Forrie?"

"Yes," assented Frederick, sitting down. "Come here and let me tell you
all about your mother's beautiful curls."

Boy hitched nearer the tall stranger. He was drawn in some unknown way
toward this man whose arms were out-held to him. Then, suddenly, he
walked straight into them, his eyes still very grave, still very
questioning.

The moment Frederick touched the little one he felt the world was his.
He forgot Waldstricker, forgot Madelene, forgot everything, but his
elf-like son within his cuddling grasp. He touched his lips to the
little face.

"Oh, I've wanted to see you so," he murmured.

"Why didn't you come, then?" demanded Boy.

"I was away," said Frederick.

"My Uncle Forrie goes away, too. When he came home yesterday, he brought
me a beautiful engine--it goes on wheels. I love my Uncle Forrie."

"Could you love me, dear?" breathed Frederick.

"Yes, oh, yes. I love everybody. God, too. So does Mummy. And Deacon,
he's my owl, and An--"

Boy's lips closed on the nearly spoken word. He suddenly remembered the
daily lessons he'd had from his mother never to mention Andy's name to
any one; that, if he did, a big man would come and take his darling Andy
away. No, Boy couldn't stand that. He wouldn't say anything about Andy,
not even to this strangely attractive man.

"What were you going to say, boy?" petitioned Frederick.

"Nothin'. Just nothin'."

And the father was satisfied, satisfied not to talk, glad to have his
son so heavenly close. The long years of his exile were slipping away.
The nerve-racking yearning of tedious days and yet more tedious,
sleepless nights was partially quieted. His son, so long, merely, the
pulseless image of his dreams, had become a b