ed in the whole wide world.

Thus, with his father asleep in the lacquered bed, and his mother
smiling in her gilded frame, the son stood alone in the great shell of
a house which had in it no beating heart, no throbbing soul to answer
his need.

Derry's rooms were furnished in a lower key than those in which his
father's taste had been followed. There were gray rugs and gray walls,
some old mahogany, the snuff-box picture of Napoleon over his desk, a
dog-basket of brown wicker in a corner.

Muffin, Derry's Airedale, stood at attention as his master came in. He
knew that the length of his sojourn depended on his manners.

A bright fire was burning, a long chair slanted across the hearthrug.
Derry got into a gray dressing gown and threw himself into the chair.
Muffin, with a solicitous sigh, sat tentatively on his haunches. His
master had had no word for him. Things were very bad indeed, when
Derry had no word for his dog.

At last it came. "Muffin--it's a rotten old world."

Muffin's tail beat the rug. His eager eyes asked for more.

It came--"Rotten."

Derry made room among the pillows, and Muffin curled up beside him in
rapturous silence. The fire snapped and flared, flickered and died.
Bronson tiptoed in to ask if Derry wanted him. Young Martin, who
valeted Derry when Bronson would let him, followed with more proffers
of assistance.

Derry sent them both away. "I am going to bed."

But he did not go to bed. He read a letter which his mother had
written before she died. He had never broken the seal until now. For
on the outside of the envelope were these words in fine feminine
script: "Not to be opened until the time comes when my boy Derry is
tempted to break his promise."

It began, "Boy dear--"

"I wonder if I shall make you understand what it is so necessary that
you should understand? It has been so hard all of these years when
your clear little lad's eyes have looked into mine to feel that some
day you might blame--me. Youth is so uncompromising, Derry, dear--and
so logical--so demanding of--justice. And life isn't logical--or
just--not with the sharp-edged justice which gives cakes to the good
little boys and switches to the bad ones. And you have always insisted
on the cakes and switches, Derry, and that's why I am afraid of you.

"Even when you were only ten and I hugged you close in the night--those
nights when we were alone, Derry, and your father was out on some wild
road