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The mother put out her hand timidly. She had ventured on forbidden ground once more. But she was not rebuffed. The girl’s hand clasped hers and drew it around a slender waist, and they walked like two school friends together.

“I cannot support the idea that you will never come again,” mourned the elder. “It is years since I have known a girl like you–a girl who can say things. I can make no headway with girls in general. They are so big and silent and athletic. They wear pins and badges, and belong to more things than I have ever heard of!”

Miss Benedet laughed. “I am silent, too, sometimes,” she said.

“But you are not dense!”

“I’m afraid you go very much to extremes in your likes and dislikes, dear lady, and you are much younger than I, you know.”

“I am quite aware of that,” said Mrs. Thorne. “You have had seven years of Europe to my twenty of Cathay.”

“Dear Cathay!” the girl murmured, with moist eyes; “I could live in this place forever.”

“Where have you lived? Tell me in how many cities of the world.”

“Oh, we never lived. We stayed in places for one reason or another. We were two years in Vienna. I worked there. I was a pupil of Leschetizky.”

“What!”

“Did I not tell you? I can play a little.”

“A little! What does that exactly mean?”

“It means too much for drawing-room music, and not enough for the stage.”

“You are not thinking of that, are you?”

“Why that voice of scorn? Have I hit upon one of your prejudices?”

“I am dreadfully old-fashioned about some things–publicity, for instance.”

“It depends upon the kind, doesn’t it? But you will never hear of me on the concert stage. Leschetizky says I have not the poise I might have had. He is very clever. There was a shock, he says, to the nerve centres. They will never again be quite under control. It is true. At this moment I am shivering within me because I must say good-by to one I might have had all my life for a friend. Is it so?”

“My dear, if you mean me, I love you!”

“Call me Helen, then. You said ‘my dear’ before you knew me.”

“Before I meant it.”

* * * * *

“I wonder who can be arriving. That is the carriage I came out in last night.”

A light surrey with two seats passed below the hill, and was visible an instant against a belt of sky.

“It is going to stop,” said Mrs. Thorne. “Suppose we step back a little. I shall not see visitors to-night. Very likely it is only some one for Mr. Thorne.”

A tall young man in traveling clothes stepped out upon the horse-block, left his luggage there, and made ten strides up the walk. They heard his step exploring the empty piazzas.

“It is Willy!” said Mrs. Thorne in a staccato whisper.

“Then good-by!” said Miss Benedet. “I will find Mr. Thorne in the garden. Dearest Mrs. Thorne, you must let me go!”

“You will not see him? Not see Willy!”

“Not for worlds. He must not know that I am here. I trust you.” She tore herself away.

Mrs. Thorne stood paralyzed between the two–her advancing son, and her fleeing guest.

“Willy!” she cried.

Her tall boy was bending over her–once more the high, fair head, the smooth arch of the neck, which she could barely reach to put her arms about it.

“Mother!” The word in his grave man’s voice thrilled her as once had the touch of his baby hands.

“I am afraid to look at you, my son. How is it with you?”

“I am all right, mother. How are things here?”

“Oh, don’t speak of us! Did you get my letter?”

“This morning.”

“And you read it, Willy?”

“Of course.”

There was a silence. Mrs. Thorne clasped her son’s arm and leaned her head against it.