er voice trembled.

The woman stopped crying, and looked up appealingly, while she wiped her
eyes on the ragged edge of the blanket. "Yes, about Gideon Vetch. That's
his name, ain't it?"

"I wouldn't talk any more now, if I were you," said Gershom, putting his
hand gently on her pillow. "We'll come again when you're feeling
spryer."

The woman nodded. "Yes, come again. Bring her again."

"I'll come whenever you send for me," said Patty reassuringly; but
instead of looking at the woman, she stooped over and touched the calla
lily with her lips, as if it were human and could respond to her. "I
want you to tell me about my mother--everything. I remember her just
once, the night before they took her to the asylum. She was in spangled
skirts that stood out like a ballet dancer's, and there was a crown of
stars on her hair and a star on the end of the wand she carried. I
remember it all just as plainly as if it were yesterday--though they
tell me I was too little--"

She broke off because the woman was gazing at her so strangely. "You
were too little," she cried, and burst into hysterical weeping. "I can't
stand it," she said wildly. "I never had a chance, and I can't stand
it."

"I think we'd better go," said Gershom. It amazed Patty to find how
gentle he could be when his sympathy was touched. "I oughtn't to have
brought you to-day." Turning away, he left the room hurriedly, as if the
scene were too much for him.

At this the woman controlled herself with a convulsive effort. "No, I
wanted to see you," she said. "You are pretty, but you aren't prettier
than your mother was at your age."

For a moment the girl looked pityingly down on her. "I hope you will
soon be better," she responded in a tone which she tried to make
sympathetic in spite of the physical shrinking she felt. "Let me know
when you wish to see me, and I will come back."

The woman shivered. "Do you mean that?" she asked. "Will you come when I
send for you? I want to see you again--once--before I die."

"I promise you that I will come. I'll send you something, too, and so
will Father."

"Gideon Vetch," said the woman very slowly, as if she were trying to
hold the name in her consciousness before it slipped away from her.
"Gideon Vetch."

As the girl broke away and ran out of the room that expressionless
repetition followed her into the hall and down the staircase, growing
fainter and fainter like the voice of one who is falling asleep:
"_Gideo