r, from the doctor to the Frenchwoman. But there was
no comprehension in them. He saw and did not see. Buntingford hung over
him, alive to his every movement, absorbed indeed in his son. The boy's
paternity was stamped upon him. He had Buntingford's hair and brow; every
line and trait in those noticeable eyes of his father seemed to be
reproduced in him; and there were small characteristics in the hands
which made them a copy in miniature of his father's. No one seeing him
could have doubted his mother's story; and Buntingford had been able to
verify it in all essential particulars by the evidence of the old
_bonne_, who had lived with Anna in Paris before her flight, and had been
present at the child's birth. The old woman was very taciturn, and
apparently hostile to Buntingford, whom she perfectly remembered; but she
had told enough.

The June evening was in full beauty when the car drew up at the
Rectory. Alcott and Dr. Ramsay's partner received them. The patient
they reported had insisted on being lifted to a chair, and was
feverishly expecting them.

Buntingford carried the boy upstairs, the _bonne_ following. The doctors
remained on the landing, within call. At sight of her mistress, Zelie's
rugged face expressed her dismay. She hurried up to her, dropped on her
knees beside her, and spoke to her in agitated French. Anna Melegrani
turned her white face and clouded eyes upon her for a moment; but made no
response. She looked past her indeed to where Buntingford stood with the
boy, and made a faint gesture that seemed to summon him.

He put him down on his feet beside her. The pathetic little creature was
wearing a shabby velveteen suit, with knickerbockers, which bagged about
his thin frame. The legs like white sticks appearing below the
knickerbockers, the blue-veined hollows of the temples, and the tiny
hands--together with the quiet wandering look--made so pitiable an
impression that Miss Alcott standing behind the sick woman could not keep
back the tears. The boy himself was a centre of calm in the agitated
room, except for the constant movement of the head. He seemed to perceive
something familiar in his mother's face, but when she put out a feeble
hand to him, and tried to kiss him, he began to whimper. Her expression
changed at once; with what strength she had she pushed him away. "_Il est
afreux_!" she said sombrely, closing her eyes.

Buntingford lifted him up, and carried him to Zelie, who was in a
ne