gun," said our Uncle Peter. "Gave it up of
his own accord when he saw that it frightened the dog."

"Why so he did!" said the Mother. She seemed very much surprised. "Why
so he did!--Why I don't know that I ever knew him to give up anything
before. He's been so delicate--and--and the only child and
everything--I'm afraid we've spoiled him."

"U--m--m," said our Uncle Peter.

"And all the circumstances of the case are so bewildering," despaired
the lady.

Like white pond-lilies floating in a black gloom her sad hands curled in
her lap. It seemed to be at our Uncle Peter that they curled.

"Are they indeed?" said our Uncle Peter. It was the "circumstances" that
he meant.

"Very bewildering," said the Lady. Her cheeks got a little pink. She
jumped up and went to the door and listened a minute at the head of the
stairs. When she came back to her chair she shut the door behind her.

"As I told you," she whispered, "the little boy isn't my own little
boy."

"So I understood," said our Uncle Peter.

"His Mother died when he was born," said the Lady.

"Very sad indeed," said our Uncle Peter.

"Dicky is six years old," said the Lady. "I married his Father a year
and a half ago. His Father was killed in an accident a year ago--"

"Oh dear--Oh dear," said our Uncle Peter.

The Lady began all over again as though it was a lesson.

"Dicky is six years old," she said. "I married his Father a year and a
half ago. He was killed in an accident a year ago. It was all so
sudden,--the marriage,--the accident,--everything--!" She began to cry a
little. It made her clothes look sorrowfuller and sorrowfuller and her
face more and more surprised. Once again she curled up her white
pond-lily hands at our Uncle Peter. It was as though she thought that
our Uncle Peter could help her perhaps with some of her surprises.
"I--I didn't know his Father very long," she cried. "I never knew his
Mother at all!----It's--It's pretty bewildering," she said, "to be left
all alone--for life--with a perfectly, strange little boy--who isn't any
relation at all!--All his funny little suits to worry about--and his
mumps and his measles--and--and whether he ought to play marbles 'for
keeps'--and shall I send him to college or not? And suppose he turns out
a burglar or something dreadful like that?--And how in the world am I
going to tackle his first love affair? Or his choice of a
profession?--Merciful Heavens!--Perhaps he'll want to fly!"

"Why-