black alpaca and wore her hair like a wardress in a jail. I'm sorry for
him--that's all."

"Suppose I should get homesick for you and run away from her!" remarked
Orlando slyly.

"Run away with her to me," chirruped Eugenie, with a vain little laugh.

Suddenly her manner changed, and she looked at her son with dreamy
intensity. "You are so wonderfully young, my dear," she said, "and I am
very old. I had much happiness with your father while he lived. He was
such a wise man. Always he gave in to me in the little things, and I
gave in to him in all the big things. He almost made me a sensible
woman."

There was a strange wistfulness in her face. Through all the years, down
beneath everything, there had been the helpless knowledge in her own
small, garish mind that she had little sense; now she realized that she
was given a chance to atone for all her pettiness by doing one great
sensible thing.

Orlando was about to embrace her, but she briskly, turned away. She
could not endure that. If he did it, the pent-up motherhood would break
forth, and her courage would take flight. She was something more than
the "parokeet of Pernambukoko," as Patsy Kernaghan had called her.

She went to the door of the other room. "I want to talk to the Young
Doctor about Amelia," she said. "He's clever, and perhaps he could give
her a good prescription. I'll send Louise to you. It's nicer courting
in this room where you can see the garden and the grand hills. You're