himself, was then to be
made by Lawrence. It came in Lawrence's next words, dragged out of
him, as it were, by a force like that which drags the soul from the
body.

"I ask you this," cried Lawrence, "in the name of our mother, for you
and I, Victor Broussard, are brothers of the half blood."

By that time, Lawrence was weeping convulsively. Broussard's lighted
cigar dropped to the floor, and lay there smoldering.

"But--but--" stammered Broussard, "my half-brother, my mother's son by
her first marriage, died when I was a boy. My mother wore mourning for
him."

"Yes," answered Lawrence, recovering himself a little, "she thought I
was dead when I was in double irons for mutiny on a merchant ship. It
was one of God's mercies that she thought me dead when I was living a
life that would have been worse than death to her. Look you, I have
disobeyed and defied and disgraced the God that made me, but I have
never ceased to believe in Him. And, blackguard that I was and am, I
had the best mother, and I have the best wife----"

There was a tense silence for a minute. Through all the bewildering
and overwhelming thoughts that were crashing through Broussard's brain,
but one thing was clear and unshakable, the deathless loyalty that a
son owes to his mother.

"Of course," said Broussard, in a cool and resolute voice, "I'll stand
by my mother's son, for my mother's sake. I was always puzzled at your
knowledge of my parents, but I want some actual proof of what you say.
Not for myself, you understand, but for others."

"Here it is," said Lawrence, taking a small, thin gold ring from his
little finger. "When my mother married your father, I was fourteen
years old. She gave me the wedding ring my father had given her; she
put it on my finger and it has never been removed since--but I will
take it off to show to you."

Lawrence pulled the ring off and Broussard, under the glare of the
electric lamp, read the initials and the date he had seen in the family
record. Then, handing the ring back, Broussard studied Lawrence's
haggard face. Lawrence, answering the unspoken words, said:

"I was always thought like my mother, and the boy is the image of her."

A sudden illumination flooded Broussard's mind with light. He recalled
the child's face, frank and handsome--a face that had always appealed
to him so strongly, and so strangely. Yes, it was the call of the
blood, and instantly the mysterious attraction the boy