stranger at my elbow.

We stood alone in the bare-floored room, under the flaring chandelier.

"I think you told me this afternoon that you were an old friend of Mrs.
Amyot's?" he began awkwardly.

I assented.

"Will you come in and see her?"

"Now? I shall be very glad to, if--"

"She's ready; she's expecting you," he interposed.

He offered no further explanation, and I followed him in silence. He led
me down the long corridor, and pushed open the door of a sitting-room.

"Mother," he said, closing the door after we had entered, "here's the
gentleman who says he used to know you."

Mrs. Amyot, who sat in an easy-chair stirring a cup of bouillon, looked up
with a start. She had evidently not seen me in the audience, and her son's
description had failed to convey my identity. I saw a frightened look in
her eyes; then, like a frost flower on a window-pane, the dimple expanded
on her wrinkled cheek, and she held out her hand.

"I'm so glad," she said, "so glad!"

She turned to her son, who stood watching us. "You must have told Lancelot