“Ah?” came Mrs. Guinness’s calm interrogatory.  No more.

William Muller was a man of culture and a certain force in one direction, and when pleading the cause of the vicious children to whom he was giving his life could hold men of real mental strength attentive and subdued.  He did not know why, when this commonplace little woman had her steady eye on him, he should always dribble out all his weakness to her.  But he did it—­talked on in a leaky way of his squabble with his church and the praises he had received in newspapers for his school, until he heard Kitty’s step on the stairs.

“Ah! there she is!” he cried relieved.

Catharine came back, close buttoned in a brown dress, with high-laced boots, and a light stick in her hand.  She used to call it her alpenstock, and make all Switzerland out of the New Jersey sands with it.  She ran in to kiss her father good-bye, blushing and delighted.  It was the first time she had ever walked with any man but himself.  “Here’s an adventure!” she whispered.  Every day she and Peter expected an adventure before night.  She drew back startled at the strange, uneasy look he gave her.  Her mother, too, pulled her hastily away, and walked beside her to the gate.

“Child,” she whispered breathlessly, “he is your lover.”

“Lover?” said Kitty aloud.  “Lover?” But Mr. Muller joined her at the moment, and opening the gate motioned for her to precede him.  They went down the quiet street together.

Mrs. Guinness went back and watched them from the shop-window.  “It is as I thought,” she said triumphantly.

Peter nodded.  She came behind him, leaning on his shoulder.  “It was only proper for me to speak to him of—­of—­” It was fifteen years since Hugh’s name had passed between them.

“Whatever was necessary to protect you and Catharine,” he said quietly.  She pressed her hands on his forehead beneath his wig, and presently he drew one of them down and held it to his lips, thinking how forbearing she had been with his boy.  Mrs. Guinness went up stairs then and knelt down by the bed.  She was rather fond of the exercise which she called praying—­taking a larger image of herself into her confidence.  Her one idea of Him was that He could provide comfortably here and elsewhere for herself and Catharine.  But to-day her conscience irritated her like a nettle.  Could it be that she was at soul tricky?  Could God hold her, rigorous church-member, fond wife and mother as she was, guilty of this boy’s blood?  Nettles, however, do not sting very deeply.  She rose presently, unfolded her work, and sat sewing and singing a hymn, a complacent smile on her good-humored face.

Down in the shop Peter had taken out the violin again, and was playing some nameless old air, into the two or three monotonous notes of which had crept an infinite stillness and longing.  He often played it, but only when he was alone, for he would not allow Kitty to hear any but merry, vivacious music.