half-contemptuous
decision that a man who knew so little of engines ought not to drive a
racer.

So Norma's half-formed jealousies, desires, and dreams were a sealed
book to him. But this very unreasonableness lent her an odd exotic charm
in his eyes. She was to Wolf like a baby who wants the moon. The moon
might be an awkward and useless possession, and the baby much better
without it, still there is something winning and touching about the
little imperious mouth and the little upstretched arms.

One night, when he had reached home earlier than either of the girls,
Wolf was in the warm bright kitchen, alone with his mother. He was
seated at the end of the scrubbed and bleached little table; Kate at the
other end was neatly and dexterously packing a yellow bowl with bread
pudding.

"Do you remember, years and years ago, Mother," Wolf said, chewing a
raisin, thoughtfully, "that you told me that Norma isn't my real
cousin?"

Kate's ruddy colour paled a little, and she looked anxious. Not Perseus,
coming at last in sight of his Gorgon, had a heart more sick with fear
than hers was at that instant.

"What put that into your head, dear?"

"Well, I don't know. But it's true, isn't it?"

Kate scattered chopped nuts from the bowl of her spoon.

"Yes, it's true," she said. "There's not a drop of the same blood in
your veins, although I love her as I do you and Rose."

She was silent, and Wolf, idly turning the egg-beater in an empty dish,
smiled to himself.

"But what made you think of that, Wolf?" his mother asked.

"I don't know!" Wolf did not look at her, but his big handsome face was
suffused with happy colour. "Harry and Rose, maybe," he admitted.

Kate sat down suddenly, her eyes upon him.

"Not the Baby?" she half whispered.

Her son leaned back in his chair, and folded his big arms across his
chest. When he looked at her the smile had faded from his face, and his
eyes were a trifle narrowed, and his mouth set.

"I guess so!" he said, simply. "I guess it's always been--Norma. But I
didn't always know it. I used to think of her as just another
sister--like Rose. But I know now that she'll never seem that
again--never did, really."

He was silent, and Kate sat staring at him in silence.

"Has she any relatives, Mother?"

"Has--what?"

"Has she people--who are they?"

Kate looked at the floor.

"She has no one but me, Son."

"Of course, she's not nineteen, and I don't believe it's ever crossed