Chester explained what part Lucy had played in this.

“Well, he agrees very much with her belief, for I have heard conversations which lead me to that conclusion.  Of course, all that is their business, not mine particularly.  Let’s walk out in the middle of the park where we can make believe we are not in London, but out in the beautiful green country which God has made.”

The grass being dry, they could sit down on it to rest.

“As you are, I presume, to become a member of the family some day,” said Uncle Gilbert, “I am going to tell you something about my brother.  It is not a pleasant subject, but I have concluded that you can be told.  It is a family secret, you must understand, and must be treated as such.  It is only because I believe your knowledge of the truth may help my brother that I am telling you this.

Chester thanked him for his confidence.  He would be glad to help in any way he could.

“Well, the story is this:  My brother in his younger days before he was married, had an unfortunate experience with a young woman.  There was a child as the result.  The woman, as nearly as I can make out, married well enough, and later, joined the Mormons and went to Utah.  She did not take the child with her, for some reason unknown to me, at least; and so the boy—­for it was a boy—­became lost to his father, and as far as I know, to his mother also.  I don’t suppose all this worried my brother as a young man; but recently, within the past few years, I should say, his conscience seems to have pricked him severely.  He has some vigorous views of fatherhood and the obligations flowing therefrom—­and I can’t say but he is right—­and now he worries about his own great neglect.  He has talked to me about it, so I know.  Sometimes he worries himself sick, and then his nervous trouble gets the overhand.”

Chester lay on the grass looking up into the sky, complacently chewing a spear of grass, while Uncle Gilbert was talking.

“What was the woman’s name?” asked Chester.

“I can’t recall it just now.  In fact, I don’t think I ever heard it.  Now, another thing that you must know, and you must not be annoyed at this:  at times, I believe he imagines you to be that boy of his.”

Chester sat up, and exactly at the moment when he looked into the face of Uncle Gilbert a cog in the machinery of his own thoughts caught into a cog of the wheel within wheels which the man at his side had been revealing.  The cog caught, then slipped, then caught again.  Wheels began to revolve, bringing into motion and view other possible developments.

“That’s only when his illness makes him delerious,” continued Uncle Gilbert.  “As I said, you must pay no attention to him under those conditions, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Yes; yes,” whispered the young man—­“Thank you.”  For him, Hyde Park and London had disappeared:  all earthly things had become mist out of which he was trying to emerge.