at, he asked, would
she, the Gone-Away Lady, have counseled him to do?

Rather nervously he sought the eyes of a miniature on top of his
desk, and as he looked into the eyes of that sweet-faced woman,
the old comfort he always used to see in them when he had stood
most in need of strength, was no longer there. "In the face of so
much misery," they seemed to say, "how can you think of
forsaking the field?"

It was not a picture of David's mother; no, it was a likeness
that had ever kept the Doctor's heart alive to gracious thoughts
and gentle ways; it was the portrait of her who had not lived to
be his wife, and a habit had come to him of fancying in the eyes
of his patients something of the same beautiful look that was in
the miniature. Particularly he had done so when David's mother
was struggling hard not to go away from her little boy, and
often, since then, the Doctor had compared the face of the
picture with that of the child; and to-day, as he was wont to do,
he took the dainty bit of porcelain in his hand to see if he
could not trace, feature by feature, the likeness he so loved to
imagine.

The way of this was very interesting to David. He stood by the
Doctor's chair and leaned his elbows on the knees of his friend,
with his plump chin in the wee, white hands.

"Is it your mother?" he questioned.

The Doctor smiled.

"No, David, but she would have been a good mother."

"Who is it?"

"It is some one," the Doctor slowly replied, "who would have
loved you very, very much."

"Where is she now?"

"She went away, little boy; years ago, David, she went away from
me."

"_I_ never saw her," said the child.

"No, David, we cannot see her, but if we keep our hearts open and
our lives all sweet and clean, we can be sure she is not far
away."

The little boy had listened attentively, but he could not
understand, and after careful examination of the picture, he
presently asked:

"When is she coming back again?"

Dr. Redfield had nothing further to tell. He crossed the room,
and hastily replaced the miniature upon the top of the high
desk.

CHAPTER IX

THE CRIME OF DAVID

It is not pleasant to be a criminal; it hurts. David knew he was
one, and although he did not know what crime he had committed, he
imagined that he was now being punished for it. The idea came to
him on account of the way the Doctor was acting. The man had
gently replaced the miniature upon the top of the desk, and
after