terribly weak and tottering; her old eyes, however expressionless,
were full of pitiful pleading. She was scarcely more than a
shadow.

"You are his son?"

Jerome lied; but he did it for a reason. "Yes."

"Then come."

She took him by the sleeve and led him to a room, then across it
to a door in the side wall. Her step was slow and feeble; twice
she stopped to sing the dirge of her wonder. "First a man and then
a woman. Now there is one. You are his son." And twice she stopped
and listened. "Do you hear anything? A bell? I love to hear it: and
then afterward I am afraid. Did you ever notice a bell? It always
makes you think of church and the things that are holy. This is a
beautiful bell--first--"

Either the woman was without her reason or very nearly so: she was
very frail.

"Come, mother, I know, first a bell, but Dr. Holcomb?"

The name brought her back again. For a moment she was blank trying
to recall her senses. And then she remembered. She pointed to the
door.

"In there--Dr. Holcomb. That's where they come. That's where they
go. Dr. Holcomb. The little old man with the beautiful whiskers.