looked like a great big faithful St. Bernard dog.

Mrs. Harley didn't think so. He seemed to her to be the boy of whom
she had dreamed in her first half-budding dreams and who had gone
wandering and come under the hand of Time, but remained a boy in his
heart. She was glad that she had made him change his tie. She loved
those deep cuts in his face.

"Very well, then," she said. "Although it is twelve o'clock I'll let
her sleep another half an hour." And then she stopped with a little
cry of dismay, "Let her! . . . I'm forgetting that it's no longer in
my power to say what she's to do or not to do!"

"How's that?"

"She's no longer the young, big-eyed, watchful child who startled us
by saying uncanny things. She's no longer the slip of a thing that I
left with her grandparents, with her wistful eyes on the horizon.
She's a married woman, Geordie, with a house of her own, and it
isn't for me to 'let' her do anything or tell her or even ask her.
She can do what she likes now. I've lost her, Geordie."

"Why, how's that, Lil?" There was surprise as well as sympathy in
Harley's voice. He had only known other people's children.

She went on quickly, with a queer touch of emotion. "The inevitable
change has come before I've had time to realize it. It's a shock. It
takes my breath away. I feel as if I had been set adrift from an
anchor. Instead of being my little girl she's my daughter now. I'm
no longer 'mammy.' I'm mother. Isn't it,--isn't it wonderful? It's