outside.

When he went up to bed his mother came into his room. She stood at the
window, and said:

"Those cypresses your grandfather planted down there have done
wonderfully. I always think they look beautiful under a dropping moon. I
wish you had known your grandfather, Jon."

"Were you married to father when he was alive?" asked Jon suddenly.

"No, dear; he died in '92--very old--eighty-five, I think."

"Is Father like him?"

"A little, but more subtle, and not quite so solid."

"I know, from grandfather's portrait; who painted that?"

"One of June's 'lame ducks.' But it's quite good."

Jon slipped his hand through his mother's arm. "Tell me about the family
quarrel, Mum."

He felt her arm quivering. "No, dear; that's for your Father some day,
if he thinks fit."

"Then it was serious," said Jon, with a catch in his breath.

"Yes." And there was a silence, during which neither knew whether the