district attorney as upon a naughty child. She did not even deign a
protest. She continued merely to smile. The smile reminded Thorndike of
the smile on the face of a mother in a painting by Murillo he had lately
presented to the chapel in the college he had given to his native town.

"That son of yours," repeated young Andrews, "is a leech. He's robbed
you, robbed his wife. Best thing I ever did for _you_ was to send him up
the river."

The mother smiled upon him beseechingly.

"Could you give me a pass?" she said.

Young Andrews flung up his hands and appealed to Thorndike.

"Isn't that just like a mother?" he protested. "That son of hers has
broken her heart, tramped on her, cheated her; hasn't left her a cent;
and she comes to me for a pass, so she can kiss him through the bars!
And I'll bet she's got a cake for him in that basket!"

[Illustration: "Was it you," demanded young Andrews, in a puzzled tone,
"or your brother who tried to knife me?"]

The mother laughed happily; she knew now she would get the pass.

"Mothers," explained Mr. Andrews, from the depth of his wisdom, "are all
like that; your mother, my mother. If you went to jail, your mother
would be just like that."

Mr. Thorndike bowed his head politely. He had never considered going to