ept the conversation on
subjects within the brief span of his memory. She seemed altogether
unconscious of the peculiar conditions surrounding himself, and the
brown eyes, meeting his own so frankly, had in their depths nothing of
the curiosity or the pity he had so often encountered, and had grown to
dread. She appeared so childlike and unaffected, and her joyous,
rippling laughter proved so contagious, that unconsciously the extra
years which a few moments before seemed to have been added to his life
dropped away; the grave, tense lines of his face relaxed, and before he
was aware he was laughing heartily at the account of some school-girl
escapade or at some tricks performed by Duke for his especial
entertainment.

In the midst of their merriment they heard the sound of hoof-beats, and,
turning, saw the family carriage approaching, containing both Mr.
Underwood and his sister.

"You two children seem to be enjoying yourselves!" was Mr. Underwood's
comment as the carriage stopped.

Darrell sprang to Mrs. Dean's assistance as she alighted, while Kate
Underwood ran down the steps to meet her father. Both greeted Darrell
warmly, but Mrs. Dean retained his hand a moment as she looked at him
with genuine motherly interest.

"I'm glad the truant has returned," she said, with her quiet smile; "I
only hope it seems as good to you to come home as it does to us to have
you here!"

Darrell was touched by her unusual kindness. "You can rest assured that
it does, mother," he said, earnestly. He was astonished at the effect of
his words: her face flushed, her lips trembled, and as she passed on
into the house her eyes glistened with tears.

Darrell looked about him in bewilderment. "What have I said?" he
questioned; "how did I wound her feelings?"

"She lost a son years ago, and she's never got over it," Mr. Underwood
explained, briefly.

"You did not hurt her feelings--she was pleased," Kate hastened to
reassure him; "but did she never speak to you about it?"

"Never," Darrell replied.

"Well, that is not to be wondered at, for she seldom alludes to it. He
died years ago, before I can remember, but she always grieves for him;
that was the reason," she added, reflectively, half to herself, "that
she always loved Harry better than she did me."

"Better than you, you jealous little Puss!" said her father, pinching
her cheek; "don't you have love enough, I'd like to know?"

"I can never have too much, you know, papa,"