mother. And she had merely put her teachings into effect.
Mrs. Eaton dropped her embroidery in her lap and gave the uncomfortable Mark a look which seemed to draw him toward her. He came forward until he stood in the middle of the room.
"And so, my son," said Mrs. Eaton, "you have been acting mysteriously. What am I to understand by that? . . . And don't twiddle your hat." There was nothing mysterious about Mark at that moment. He was at the most awkward period of mental and vocal adolescence, and he was badly frightened. "And what light, my son, are you going to throw for us upon the extraordinary conduct of your brother John?"
Mark sincerely hoped that he wasn't going to throw any light on anything. He didn't feel up to it, and he didn't know what would happen to him if he did.
"I don't know what you mean, D-D-Dear Mother," he said, with a piteous mixture of bass and falsetto sounds.
Mrs. Eaton raised her eyebrows. And shot a question at the young ruin before her. "Did John say anything to you?"
Mark swallowed hard and nodded.
"What did John say to you?"
The girls came forward a little so as not to miss
