She used her lorgnette upon the pair of guests when they were ushered in, but her interest in the silent boy was quickly transferred to the tall, attractive blond man with the flashing smile and sparkling eyes, who greeted her daughter with such accustomed friendliness.

"Mamma, may I present Mr. Barrison," said Diana serenely.

Philip's smile vanished and he bowed. His manner, Mrs. Wilbur thought, was unpleasantly good.

"And this is Herbert Gayne, Mamma," went on Diana.

The boy's eyes roved to the plump lady, who came forward and took his hand.

"I knew your grandfather, my dear child," she said, and she glanced over his shabby figure, appalled that the name of Loring could ever fall so low.

Bertie said nothing. What did the lady mean by talking about his grandfather? No one but his mother had ever done that.

A slight smile touched his lips as Mrs. Lowell greeted him, and then he looked over his shoulder and all about the flower-strewn room.

"Your uncle is not here," she said quietly. "He isn't coming, Bertie. We are going to have lunch alone."

The boy's melancholy eyes lifted to hers questioningly. She nodded reassuringly.

"Mr. Barrison, this is the key to Bert's room," said Diana. "Will you go up with him and then return here? Luncheon will be ready."

Philip took the key, and, wondering, escorted his charge to the elevator. "Bert's room," he said to himself. When they arrived there, the flowers on the dresser caused him to remember Matt Blake's absurd account, and he felt his first questioning as to whether ice-cream and a show or two did really cover the plans of these ladies for the boy. "But where is Uncle Nick?" was his mental query.

Herbert, second, looked about his bathroom. He had never seen anything in the slightest degree like it.

"Treating you pretty well, aren't they, old man?" said Philip, opening his bag and taking out the boy's worn brush and broken comb.

"Uncle Nick will be mad," said Bert.

"I heard Mrs. Lowell say that he wasn't coming," remarked Philip.

"Of course—he'll come," returned the boy. "And he'll—he'll beat me."

"Bet you a thousand dollars he won't," said Philip. "Have you any money with you?"

The boy felt in his pockets and brought forth a penny.

"That's all right," said Philip gayly. "If your Uncle Nick beats you, I'll give you a thousand dollars. If he doesn't, you are to give me that penny. Understand?"

Philip's smile was infectious. The corners of the boy's mouth twitched a little. The flowers on the dresser smelled sweet, so did the soap he was using. It was all like a wonderful dream, but over its brightness hung a dark cloud: Uncle Nick.

"All right," he said vaguely.

"Say, make it snappy, boy. I'm as hungry as a bear, aren't you? Here's a nailbrush. Better use it."

Bert hurried, and finally dried his hands and brushed his hair obediently. As much as he noticed anybody he had always noticed and liked Philip from the day that he watched him paint the Inn sign, and now, in spite of his apprehensions, he felt some stimulation from the company of this big strong man who was going to give him a thousand dollars if Uncle Nick should beat him.

While he was brushing his hair, the telephone rang. Philip answered it. It was Diana speaking.

"I want to thank you so much for doing this errand for us. I know you must be mystified by the urgency of my wire, and this is my best way to tell you in a few words what has occurred. You can see that the matter is confidential, for time and labor and the law will be necessary to adjust matters, but I feel we owe it to you to tell you all. Of course, the boy knows nothing as yet—"

When Philip finally turned from the telephone, he met his companion's troubled gaze, the hairbrush hung suspended in the air.

"Was it Uncle Nick?" he asked.

"No," returned Philip. He continued to sit still for a minute, regarding the unconscious millionaire with the penny in the pocket of his outgrown trousers. "It's all right, old man. Miss Wilbur wants us to come down to lunch, that's all."

As they went to the elevator to descend, the boy spoke again: "Uncle Nick hates—he hates Mrs. Lowell," he said.

"Good thing he isn't coming, then, isn't it?" returned Philip.

"But he'll—he will come sometime," said Bert with conviction.

Arrived at Diana's suite, they found luncheon ready to be served. Mrs. Wilbur had vanished, not without some uneasy comments upon Philip, which Diana had answered with such utter serenity as to quiet any suspicion she might have entertained that there was something personal in her child's extraordinary attachment to the wilderness.

The four sat down to the charming little meal, and, in spite of the boy's unconquerable apprehensions, he ate pretty well, as he sat there opposite Philip and between Mrs. Lowell and Diana.

The former asked him about the garden and the croquet ground, while Philip addressed himself to Diana, who wore the gray gown with a rose at the belt, although she had felt she could never put it on again. The contents of a suitcase do not admit of much variety of costume.

"I'm almost dumb with surprise at your news," he said.

"Of course you would be."

"Does the ogre know of the arrival of relatives?"

"He has not the least suspicion of it. He will be told to-morrow."

"Can a can be tied to him?"

Bert was telling about weeding the garden with Veronica, and Diana leaned a little toward Philip. "What—what was your question?"

Philip smiled. "I asked if it would be possible to eliminate the gentleman."

"I think so. Mr. Loring's lawyer is, of course, attending to the whole matter and is to see him for the second time to-morrow. Does any one doubt that truth is stranger than fiction?"

"No." Philip looked across at Mrs. Lowell and the sweet regard she was bending upon the boy, who was trying in his hesitating way to tell her something about the beach.

Bert put his hand in his pocket, and Philip wondered if he were going to produce his capital, but instead he drew forth a little yellow stone and offered it to his friend.

"That is unusually lovely," she said, and held it up to the light before she handed it back.

"No, it is for you," said the boy. Sad as he may have maintained that it made him to be in this lady's company, her gentle presence was irresistible to him, and his face, as he handed back to her the little stone, had a more interested expression than his friends had ever seen it wear.

"It is to go—with the others in—in a bottle," he said.

"It is almost too nice for that. I think this is a little gem. Supposing I take it to a lapidary, a man who polishes stones, and have it made into a scarf-pin for you."

"No, for you," said the boy.

Philip and Diana exchanged a look.

"There is 'the greatest thing in the world' working again," he said.

They had just finished dessert when Miss Wilbur was called to the telephone.

"Ask him to come up to my room," she answered.

"Is it—Uncle Nick?" asked Bert, his light extinguished.

"No," returned Mrs. Lowell, smiling reassuringly. "You must remember I told you he is not coming."

Philip gave the boy his gay smile. "Bert thought he was going to make a thousand dollars," he said; but the rusty springs of the lad's mind could not respond quickly. He looked at the young man questioningly. "Don't you remember," added Philip, "we have a bet up, one thousand dollars to a cent?"

The boy did not answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the door. Nothing which could be said was able entirely to quiet the apprehension that his uncle would walk in upon him, surrounded as he was by forbidden companions, and a luxury which his tyrant had not been invited to share.

"The gentleman who is coming to call on us is one who knew your mother," said Mrs. Lowell. "You will like to meet him."

"Is he—is he angry with her, too?" asked the boy quickly.

"No, dear child," returned Mrs. Lowell, compassion surging through her for this young life which knew so much of anger and so little of anything else.

The noiseless waiters were removing all signs of the luncheon when the door opened and Luther Wrenn entered.

As soon as he had greeted the ladies and Philip had been introduced, his smooth-shaven, keen face at once centered on the boy. Mrs. Lowell, her hand on Bert's arm, guided him to stand.

"This is Herbert Gayne, Mr. Wrenn, and this is your mother's friend, Bertie."

The boy's plaintive, spiritless gaze and the passive hand which the lawyer took bore out all he had heard of him, but Mrs. Lowell's expressive face was courageous and the lawyer sat down beside Herbert Loring's heir determined not to be outdone by her in hopefulness. Of course, he had been painstakingly told every detail concerning the boy which Mrs. Lowell had discovered, and it was a very kindly look with which he regarded his new client as they were seated near together.

"I brought my introduction with me, Herbert," he said, and feeling in a breast-pocket he drew forth the card photograph which had yesterday been put into his hands.

Color streamed over the boy's face when he saw it. "It is—it is like one I lost," he said, and he held it between his hands, studying it.

"You shall have this one, then," said Mr. Wrenn. "I was fond of your mother, Herbert."

"They were angry with her," said the boy, and his lip quivered at some memory.

"Yes, her father felt very badly because she went away from him, but he has gone to her now. Did you know that?"

The boy lifted his eyes to the thin, kindly face. "No," he said.

"Yes," went on Mr. Wrenn quietly. "Her father has gone to her in that pleasant world where she is."

"I want to go," burst forth the boy, holding the picture tightly.

"All in good time," returned the lawyer. "You have some work to do for her here first."

"Do you mean—weed the garden?"

"I mean quite a lot of very pleasant things. I'll tell you about them later."

"But Uncle Nick won't—won't let me. He—I don't know whether I can hide this picture." A sudden panic seemed to seize the boy, and he looked toward the door. It was not possible that his uncle would not come in upon all these totally forbidden proceedings.

"See here, Herbert,"—Mr. Wrenn leaned toward the lad, speaking very kindly. "I think it quite likely that you will never see your uncle again."

Some thought made the boy's eyes dilate. "He hasn't—gone where—where my mother is—has he?"

"No."

"I'm—I'm glad. He'd—he'd spoil heaven," declared Bertie earnestly.

Luther Wrenn nodded slowly. "An excellent description," he said. The three observers of the interview smiled. "Do you think you might adopt me in his place?" added the lawyer.

"He—he wouldn't let me. He'll come," said the boy with conviction.

"Now, Herbert," said Mr. Wrenn, with reassuring calm, "I know more about this than you do. I talked with your uncle yesterday and I think he will give you to me."

The boy's lips fell apart and he stared at the speaker gravely.

"To me, and to Mrs. Lowell. How would you like that?"

It was evident that this information could not be credited entirely, but the boy glanced around at Mrs. Lowell, who still sat close beside him, and she looked as if she believed this marvel. Unconsciously he pressed the picture against his breast. Luther Wrenn regarded the thin wrists and ankles protruding from the worn coat and trousers.

"Have you your sketch of your mother?" asked Mrs. Lowell. "Will you show it to Mr. Wrenn?"

The boy put his hand in a pocket and drew out the small folded square, and the lawyer felt some obstruction in his throat as he saw the worn tissue paper and the morsel of oiled silk being so tenderly unrolled.

"When I lost the one like—like this, I tried to—to make another," the boy explained.

Luther Wrenn put on his eye-glasses and examined the little sketch. He looked at Mrs. Lowell and nodded. "Save this," he said to the boy. "Go on being careful of it, for you will always be glad you made it, but you need never hide anything again. Do you understand that? We will get a case for this photograph so you can carry it in your pocket, and I can have an enlargement made of it so you can have it framed on your wall."

"I haven't—haven't any money," said Bertie, overwhelmed by these novel prospects, and convinced that this kindly visitor must be laboring under some great delusion. "I just have—have one cent, but—but I have to give that to—to Mr. Barrison if Uncle Nick doesn't—doesn't beat me. He bet me a thousand dollars."

Luther Wrenn gave a queer broken sort of laugh and wiped his eye-glasses. "Mr. Barrison has won," he said. "Always pay your debts, Herbert."

"Do you mean I—I shall give him the cent?"

"Your last cent, yes. He was right, you see, and it belongs to him."

The boy took out the penny and, rising gravely, crossed to Philip and proffered the coin.

Philip accepted it and bowed. "You are an honorable gentleman," he said.

Bert returned quickly to his chair and again possessed himself of the picture which he had given Mrs. Lowell to hold during the financial transaction.

"Now, Herbert," said Mr. Wrenn slowly, "I see that you were thinking that photograph cases and frames cost money. You will be glad to know that your grandfather—your mother's father, who has now gone to her—has left you some of his money. If you think of anything especial that you would like to have while you are here in Boston, you can buy it."

No one present ever forgot the boy's face as he spoke, looking up into the lawyer's eyes. "A pencil?" he said.

Luther Wrenn nodded and swallowed again. "Yes, pencils, paper, sketch-blocks, brushes, paints, anything you want. Just tell Mr. Barrison. I think he will take you out presently and get you the clothes you need—" The boy looked down over his old suit, quite dazed, and more than ever certain that all this must be a dream and that he should waken on his cot at the island and find the familiar dark face bending over him and some greeting, like "Get up, stupid," assailing his ears.

But he did not waken. Mrs. Lowell put her arm around his shoulders and gave him a little squeeze, and when he looked up he found her smiling at him.

Mr. Wrenn addressed her. "The more I see of the boy, the more I recognize a resemblance to his mother." He rose and crossed to Philip, who got to his feet. "Mr. Barrison, we are greatly indebted to you, and we wish to be more so. Can you oblige us by dressing this young client of mine this afternoon?"

"Delighted," replied Philip.

"What has he brought with him?"

"A brush and comb and toothbrush, all veterans, and all wounded."

"Very well. If you will get for him everything a boy needs for the remainder of the summer only, I shall be greatly obliged. Mrs. Lowell will make the list, I am sure, and you can help her if she gets lost. Have everything charged to me. Here is my card with the order, and here is a check for your traveling expenses on this trip."

"It is too much," said Philip as he saw the figure.

"Pretty accurate," said the lawyer. "I am calculating that you will stay in town over one night at least. If there is a balance you might send some roses to"—the door opened and a very dignified and extremely curious little lady entered: a quite plump and not entirely pleased little lady—"some roses to Mrs. Wilbur," finished the lawyer.

"Do you hear that, Mrs. Wilbur?" asked Philip. "Mr. Wrenn is telling me I may send you roses. Is that one word for me and two for himself?"

The lady shrugged her marvelously fitted shoulders, but she smiled. Even she could not help responding to Philip's vital spark. "It is my own private feeling that some attention should be paid to me," she returned, lifting her chin.

Philip approached her. "Name your color!" he exclaimed with an air of devotion.

"I think it will be a real pleasure to him, Mamma," said Diana, smiling, "to turn from an immersion in sublunary matters like socks and neckties to a poetic purchase."

"Why should Mr. Barrison be about to bathe in socks and neckties?"

"He is kind enough to take the matter off my hands, Mrs. Wilbur, and make our young friend fit," said the lawyer.

The lady lifted her lorgnette and surveyed the silent boy.

Mr. Wrenn approached him. "Herbert, you have no reason to like the name of Gayne. What do you say to dropping it? What do you say to being Herbert Loring, Second?"

"If Mrs. Lowell says so," he responded. He might have said: "What's in a name?" For the excited color had settled in his cheeks. Let them call him what they liked. He was going, boldly and unafraid, to have a pencil.