“Oh yes,” Alford answered, looking intently at her, but with so little speculation in the eyes he glared so with that he knew her to be uneasy under them.

She laughed a little, and stayed her hand on the bail of the teapot.  “Which of her?”

“Oh, both!”

“And—­and—­did she look so much like me?” she said, with an added laugh, that he perceived had an hysterical note in it.  “You’re letting your rarebit get cold!”

He laughed himself, now, a great laugh of relaxation, of relief.  “Not the least in the world!  She was not exactly a phantom of delight.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Alford.  Now, it’s your tea’s getting cold.”

They laughed together, and he gave himself to his victual with a relish that she visibly enjoyed.  When that question of his grandmother had been pushed he thought of an awful experience of his childhood, which left on his infant mind an indelible impression, a scar, to remain from the original wound forever.  He had been caught in a lie, the first he could remember, but by no means the last, by many immemorable thousands.  His poor little wickedness had impugned the veracity of both these terrible old ladies, who, habitually at odds with each other, now united, for once, against him.  He could always see himself, a mean little blubbering-faced rascal, stealing guilty looks of imploring at their faces, set unmercifully against him, one in sorrow and one in anger, requiring his mother to whip him, and insisting till he was led, loudly roaring, into the parlor, and there made a liar of for all time, so far as fear could do it.

When Mrs. Yarrow asked if he had ever seen his grandmother he expected instantly to see her, in duplicate, and as a sole refuge, but with little hope that it would save him, he kept his eyes fast on hers, and to his unspeakable joy it did avail.  No other face, of sorrow or of anger, rose between them.  For the time his thought was quit of its consequence; no eidolon outwardly repeated his inward vision.  A warm gush of gratitude seemed to burst from his heart, and to bathe his whole being, and then to flow in a tide of ineffable tenderness towards Mrs. Yarrow, and involve her and bear them together heavenward.  It was not passion, it was not love, he perceived well enough; it was the utterance of a vital conviction that she had saved him from an overwhelming subjective horror, and that in her sweet objectivity there was a security and peace to be found nowhere else.

He greedily ate every atom of his rarebit, he absorbed every drop of the moisture in the teapot, so that when she shook it and shook it, and then tried to pour something from it, there was no slightest dribble at the spout.  But they lingered, talking and laughing, and perhaps they might never have left the place if the hard handmaiden who had brought the tea-tray had not first tried putting her head in at the swing-door from the kitchen, and then, later, come boldly in and taken the tray away.