desk; the windows opening on the garden were raised, for it was hot
after the rain, and the air blew in, fragrant with wet leaves and the
scent of some late roses. Johnny's father, sinking down in a great
leather chair, watched the young, vigorous figure standing in front of
the mantelpiece, smoking and, after the fashion of his years, laying
down the law for the improvement of the world. Doctor Lavendar did not
look at Johnny, but at his mother, who stood clutching the corner of the
big desk--that desk at which, one September night twenty-three years
ago, Johnny's grandfather had been sitting when Miss Lydia came into the
library. . . .

"Mary, my dear, aren't you going to sit down?" said Doctor Lavendar.

She did not seem to hear him. "Look here," she said, harshly; "I can't
stand it--I won't stand it--"

Carl sprang up and laid his hand on her arm. "Mary!" he said, under his
breath. "_Please_," he besought her; "for God's sake don't--don't--"

"Johnny, you belong to me," Mary said.

John Smith, his cigar halfway to his lips, paused, bewildered and
alarmed. "Isn't she well?" he said, in a low voice to Doctor Lavendar.

"I'm perfectly well. But I'm going to speak. Doctor Lavendar will tell
you I have a right to speak! Tell him so, Doctor Lavendar."

"She has the right to speak," the old man said.

"You hear that?" said the mother. "He says I have a right to you!"

"I didn't say that," said Doctor Lavendar.

"Mary," her husband protested, "I will not allow"--but she did not hear
him:

"Miss Lydia sha'n't have you any longer. You are _mine_, Johnny--_mine_.
I want you, and I'm going to have you!"

John Smith's face went white; he put his cigar down on the mantelpiece,
went across the long room, closed the door into the hall, then came back
and looked at his mother. No one spoke. Doctor Lavendar had bent his
head and shut his eyes; he would not watch the three struggling souls
before him. Johnny slowly turned his eyes toward Mr. Robertson.

"And you--?"

"Yes," his father said. "John, you'll make the best of us, won't you?"

Silence tingled between them.

Then, unsteadily, and looking always at his father, John began to speak.
"Of course it makes no difference to me. Aunt Lydia and I have our own
life. But--I'm sorry, sir." He put his shaking hands into his pockets.
"You and Mrs. Robertson--"

"Oh, say 'mother'! Say 'mother'!" she cried out.

"--have been very kind to me, always,"--he paused, in a sud