weak arms about the boy, as though to protect him from what I might think.
Bobby peevishly put away his feeble clasp. "Father, you are so silly!" he cried "Look! you nearly broke my whistle."
"If she should come back," the old man continued, struggling with shame and pain, "and make any trouble about the will, remember, I was quite sane when I spoke to you and named you as trustee."
"Is mother coming back?" Bobby asked, lifting his face and smiling. "She is so long away. Mother is so gay," he added, turning to me; "she was always laughing and playing with us. When will she come home?"
Walter Barrington moved restlessly. "Oh, my God!" I heard him mutter, "my God!" I thought he was in pain, but saw the agony was in his soul.
Bobby seemed to be remembering something; his face changed into anger.
"You would not let her in." He turned on his father. "You would not let her in when she came home last time."
"Be silent!" the dying man commanded sternly, his face already dead. Then, his voice
