hen he looked
into the eyes of the young man whom, years before, he had left as a
child at Derwood Manor.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He knew he was--he only wanted some fresh
light on the dark record. For years the book had been sealed.

"Am I sure? Why it used to be in the garret till my father died, and
then my mother brought it down into her room. I have seen her sit
before it for hours--she loved it. And once I found her kissing it.
Strange, isn't it, how a woman will regret her youth?--and yet I
always thought my mother beautiful even when her hair turned gray."

Gregg turned his head and tightened his fingers. For an instant he
feared his tears would unman him.

"If it is your mother's portrait," he said, "the picture belongs to
you, not to me. I bought it because it recalled a face I once knew,
and for its beauty. A man has but one mother, and if your own was like
this one she must be your most precious memory. I did not intend to
part with it, but I'll give it to you."

"Oh! you are very good, Mr. Gregg," burst out the young man, grasping
Adam's hand (Adam caught Olivia's smile now, flashing across his
features), "but I have no place for it--not yet. I may have later,
when I have a home of my own; that depends upon my business. I'll only
ask you to let me come in once in a while to see it."

Gregg returned the grasp heartily, declaring that his door was always
open to him at any time and the picture at his disposal whenever he
should claim it. He did not tell him he had painted it. He did not
tell him that he had known either Olivia or his father, or of his
visit ten years later. That part of his life had had a sad and bitter
end. Both of them were dead; the house in ruins--why rake among the
cinders?

* * * * *

All that spring, in response to Adam's repeated welcomes, Philip
Colton made excuses to drop into Gregg's studio. At first to postpone
the time for Mr. Eggleston's sittings; then to invite Gregg to dinner
at his club to meet some brother financiers, which Gregg declined;
again to get his opinion on some trinkets he had bought, and still
again to bring him some flowers, he having noticed that the painter
was never without them--nor was the portrait, for that matter, Adam
always placing a cluster of blossoms or a bunch of roses near the
picture, either on the mantel beneath or on the table beside it.

Sometimes Adam when leaving his door on a crack would find that