blue eyes was a twinkle that would have made any man who designed
getting the better of him in a bargain think twice before he made
the attempt.

It was easily seen that Eric must have inherited his personal
beauty and distinction of form from his mother, whose picture
hung on the dark wall between the windows. She had died while
still young, when Eric was a boy of ten. During her lifetime she
had been the object of the passionate devotion of both her
husband and son; and the fine, strong, sweet face of the picture
was a testimony that she had been worthy of their love and
reverence. The same face, cast in a masculine mold, was repeated
in Eric; the chestnut hair grew off his forehead in the same way;
his eyes were like hers, and in his grave moods they held a
similar expression, half brooding, half tender, in their depths.

Mr. Marshall was very proud of his son's success in college, but
he had no intention of letting him see it. He loved this boy of
his, with the dead mother's eyes, better than anything on earth,
and all his hopes and ambitions were bound up in him.

"Well, that fuss is over, thank goodness," he said testily, as he
dropped into his favourite chair.

"Didn't you find the programme interesting?" asked Eric absently.

"Most of it was tommyrot," said his father. "The only things I
liked were Charlie's Latin prayer and those pretty little girls
trotting up to get their diplomas. Latin IS the language for
praying in, I do believe,--at least, when a man has a voice like