“To see you, mother?”

“To be sure.  If there’s anything wrong at Hatton, he generally comes and gives me his mind on the same.”

“You mean that you dream he does?”

“You may as well call it ‘dreaming’ as anything else.  The name you give it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Not much, mother.  I brought home with me two of Harry’s paintings.  They are fine copies of famous pictures.  I gave him fifty pounds for them and thought them cheap at that.”

“Well, then, if I was buying Harry’s work, I would not count on its cheapness.  I’ll be bound that you bought them as an excuse for giving him money.  I would buy or give away, one or the other.  I hate make-believes—­I do that!—­of all kinds and for all reasons, good or bad.”

“There was nothing like pretending in the transaction, mother.  The pictures were good, I paid their value and no more or less, because they were only copies.  Harry’s technique is perfect, and his feeling about color and atmosphere wonderful, but he cannot create a picture.  He has not the imagination.  I am sorry for it.”

“Be sorry if you like, John.  I have a poor opinion of imagination, except in religious matters.  However, Harry has chosen his own way:  I don’t approve of it.  I won’t praise him, and I won’t quarrel with him.  You can do as you like.  One thing is sure—­he is more than good enough for the girl he married.”

“He is very fond of her and I do believe she keeps Harry straight.  He does just as she thinks best about most things.”

“Does he?  Then he ought to be ashamed of himself to take orders from her.  Many times he sneaked round my orders and even his father’s, and then to humble a Hatton to obey the orders of a poor Welsh girl!  It’s a crying shame!  It angers me, John!  It would anger anyone, it would.  You can’t say different, John.”

“Yes, I can, mother.  I assure you that Lucy is just the wife Harry needs.  And they have two fine little lads.  I wish the eldest—­called Stephen after my father—­was my own son.  I do that!”

“Nay, my dear.  There’s no need for such a wish.  There are sons and daughters for Hatton, no doubt of that.  Thy little Martha is very dear to my heart.”

“To mine also, mother.”

“Then be thankful—­and patient.  I’m going upstairs to get a letter I want posted.  Will you take it to the mail for me?”

Then Mrs. Hatton left the room and John looked wistfully after her.  “It is always so,” he thought.  “If I name children, she goes.  What does it mean?”

He looked inquiringly into his mother’s face when she returned and she smiled cheerfully back, but it was with the face of an angry woman she watched him to the gate, muttering words she would not have spoken had there been anyone to hear them nearby.  And John’s attitude was one of uncertain trouble.  He carried himself intentionally with a lofty bearing, but in spite of all his efforts to appear beyond care, he was evidently in the grip of some unknown sorrow.