look almost new. One thing was certain,--the light did n't reveal any dirt that would come off for there was n't any. Mrs. Wentworth's New England ancestry and training had survived even the blows of a hard luck which had n't fought her fair. On this particular night Sis had just lost herself in her thumbworn volume of Grimm's Fairy Tales when--there came a kick on the outside door and the sound of two voices coming down the short hall. The next minute Bobby entered with his clothes all mud and behind him a strange gentleman. It was evident that something had happened to the boy, but the mother did not scream. She was not that kind. Her lips tightened as she braced herself for whatever this new decree of Fate might be. In a jiffy Bobby, who recognized that look as the same he had seen when they had brought Daddy home, was at her side. "Cheer up, Mumsy," he exclaimed. "Nothin' doin' in caskits this time." She lifted her thin, angular face from the boy to Donaldson. The latter explained, "He got tangled up a bit with an automobile, but I guess the machine got the worst of it. At any rate your boy is all right." The mother passed her hand over the lad's head, expressing a world of tenderness in the act. "It was kind of you to bring him home," she said. The directness of the woman, her self control, her simplicity, enlisted Donaldson's interest at once. He had expected hysterics. He would have staked his last dollar that the woman came from Vermont. His observant eyes had in these few minutes covered everything in the room, including the long-handled dipper by the faucet used for dipping into pails sweating silver mist, the wooden clock upon the mantelpiece, and the Hicks Almanac hanging below it. He felt as though he were standing in a Berringdon kitchen with acres of green outside the windows sweeping in a circle off to the little hills, the acres of forest green, and the big hills beyond. The mother stepped forward and brushed the mud from Bobby's coat. The baby screwed up his face for a howl to call attention to his neglect in the midst of all this excitement. "What's this?" exclaimed Bobby, picking him up with as substantial an air of paternity as though he were forty. "What's this? Goneter cry afore a stranger?" He held the child up to Donaldson.