like him--in spite of--of everything. But she
deserted me when I was born."

"It is certainly cruel to desert a newborn thing," said Doctor Lavendar.

John Smith agreed, furiously--and his upper lip lifted.

"I think," said Doctor Lavendar, "something has been born to-night--" He
was very much out of breath.

"I'm walking too fast again? I beg your pardon, sir," the boy said.

"Suppose we stand still for a minute," said Doctor Lavendar.

They stood still; the rain fell heavily on Doctor Lavendar's shoulders
and dripped from the brim of his old felt hat. "She deserted me," John
said. "There is nothing to be said in excuse. Nothing."

"No, desertion can never be excused," the old man agreed; "and, as you
say, when your body was born, she left it. To-night her soul has been
born. Do you mean to desert it, John?"

"Even a dog doesn't leave her pups!" John said.

("His grandfather over again!" Doctor Lavendar thought.) Yet it was to
that inherited brutality that he made his appeal:

"No; a mother has to be higher than an animal, to desert her young,"
Doctor Lavendar said.

The young man's violent agreement broke off in the middle:--"What do you
mean by that?"

"Shame is a strange thing," said Doctor Lavendar; "it can lift us up to
heaven or push us down to hell; it gives us courage or it makes us
cowards. An animal doesn't know shame."

"You mean that--that woman--?"

"I mean your mother was ashamed, John--" The young man was silent. "She
tried to get away from shame by getting away from you. Now she knows
that only by staying with you could she really get away from it."

"I will _never_ call her 'mother'!" Johnny burst out.

"Miss Lydia didn't stop to consider what she was going to call you; she
just took care of you. Yet you weren't as helpless as that poor woman
back there in that empty house. Johnny, her little weak soul, just born
to-night, will die unless you take care of it."

The young man stood still, his hands clenched. Doctor Lavendar took off
his soaking wet hat, shook it, put it on again, and waited. There was
only the sound of the rain and the drip-drip from the big trees along
the driveway. Then the boy said:

"You said desertion could not be excused. I am ashamed to be known as
belonging to her!"

"That's just how she felt about you--_so she deserted you_."

Silence, except for John Smith's panting breath. Down the road, through
the lilac bushes, came the twinkle of a lamp in Miss Lydi