tone. "I think that somewhere, in the House not Made with Hands, there
is a young and lovely mother who is very proud of her boy to-night."

The Colonel's fine face took on an unwonted tenderness. "I hope so. She
left me a sacred trust."

Francesca crossed the room, drew the young man's tall head down, and
kissed him. "Well done, dear foster-child. Your adopted mother, once
removed, is fully satisfied with you, and very much pleased with
herself, being, vicariously, the parent of a great artist."

"I hope you don't consider me 'raised,'" replied Allison. "You're not
going to stop 'mothering' me, are you?"

"I couldn't," was her smiling assurance. "I've got the habit."

He seemed very young as he looked down at her. Woman-like she loved him,
through the man that he was, for the child that he had been.

"Come, lad," the Colonel suggested, "it's getting late and we want to be
invited again."

Allison closed his violin case with a snap, said good-night to Aunt
Francesca, then went over to Rose. "I don't feel like calling you 'Miss
Bernard," he said. "Mayn't I say 'Cousin Rose,' as we rejoice in the
possession of the same Aunt?"

"Surely," she answered, colouring faintly.

"Then good-night, Cousin Rose. I'll see you soon again, and we'll begin