ookies for Johnny," Miss Lydia said, briskly, and Mary's
soft hands clenched. Why shouldn't _she_ be making cookies for Johnny!

"I've got a pan in the oven," said Miss Lydia, "and I've got to watch
'em."

Mary was silent; she sat down by the table, her breath catching in her
throat. Miss Lydia did not, apparently, notice the agitation; she
bustled about and brought her a cooky on a cracked plate--and watched
her.

"I want--" Mary said, in a trembling voice, and crumbling the cooky with
nervous fingers--"I mean, I am going to have Johnny visit me this
winter."

"Oh," said Miss Lydia, and sat down.

"I'll have him during the holidays."

"No."

"Why not?" Mary said, angrily.

"He'd guess."

"You needn't be afraid of _that_!"

Miss Lydia silently shook her head; instantly Mary's anger turned to
fright.

"Oh, Miss Lydia--please! I promise you he shall never have the dimmest
idea--why, he _couldn't_ have! It wouldn't do, you know. But I want him
just to--to look at."

Miss Lydia was pale. She may have been a born gambler, but never had she
taken such a chance as this--to give Johnny back, even for a week, to
the people who once had thrown him away, but who now were ready to do
everything for him, give him anything he wanted!--and a boy wants so
many things! "No," she said, "no."

Mary gave a starved cry, then dropped on her knees, clutched at the
small, rough, floury hand and tried to kiss it.

"A mother has a claim," she said, passionately.

Miss Lydia, pulling her hand away, nodded. "Yes, a mother has."

"Then let him come. Oh, let him come!"

"_Are you his mother?_"

Mary fell back, half sitting on the floor, half kneeling at Miss Lydia's
feet. "What do you mean? You know--"

"Sometimes," said Miss Lydia, "I think _I'm_ his mother."

Mary started. "She's crazy!" she thought, scared.

"He is mine," Miss Lydia said, proudly; "some foolish people have even
thought he was mine in--in your way."

"Absurd!" Mary said, with a gasp.

"You have never understood love, Mary," Miss Lydia said; "never, from
the very beginning." And even as Johnny's mother recoiled at that
sword-thrust, she added, her face very white: "But I'll chance it. Yes,
if he wants to visit you I'll let him. But I hope you won't hurt him."

"Hurt him? Hurt my own child? He shall have everything!"

"That's what I mean. It may hurt him. He may get to be like you," Miss
Lydia said. . . . "Oh, my cookies! They are burning!" She push