As the days went by and Lucy made no effort to attach Archie to her or to interest herself either in his happiness or welfare, Jane became more and more disturbed.  She had prayed for this home-coming and had set her heart on the home-building which was sure to follow, and now it seemed farther off than ever.  One thing troubled and puzzled her:  while Lucy was always kind to Archie indoors, kissing him with the others when she came down to breakfast, she never, if she could help it, allowed him to walk with her in the village, and she never on any occasion took him with her when visiting the neighbors.

“Why not take Archie with you, dear?” Jane had said one morning to Lucy, who had just announced her intention of spending a few days in Philadelphia with Max Feilding’s sister Sue, whom she had met abroad when Max was studying in Dresden—­Max was still a bachelor, and his sister kept house for him.  He was abroad at the time, but was expected by every steamer.

“Archie isn’t invited, you old goosie, and he would be as much out of place in Max’s house as Uncle Ephraim Tipple would be in Parliament.”

“But they would be glad to see him if you took him.  He is just the age now when a boy gets impressions which last him through—­”

“Yes, the gawky and stumble-over-things age!  Piano-stools, rugs, anything that comes in his way.  And the impressions wouldn’t do him a bit of good.  They might, in fact, do him harm,” and she laughed merrily and spread her fingers to the blaze.  A laugh was often her best shield.  She had in her time dealt many a blow and then dodged behind a laugh to prevent her opponent from striking back.

“But, Lucy, don’t you want to do something to help him?” Jane asked in a pleading tone.

“Yes, whatever I can, but he seems to me to be doing very well as he is.  Doctor John is devoted to him and the captain idolizes him.  He’s a dear, sweet boy, of course, and does you credit, but he’s not of my world, Jane, dear, and I’d have to make him all over again before he could fit into my atmosphere.  Besides, he told me this morning that he was going off for a week with some fisherman on the beach—­some person by the name of Fogarty, I think.”

“Yes, a fine fellow; they have been friends from their boyhood.”  She was not thinking of Fogarty, but of the tone of Lucy’s voice when speaking of her son.

“Yes—­most estimable gentleman, no doubt, this Mr. Fogarty, but then, dear, we don’t invite that sort of people to dinner, do we?” and another laugh rippled out.

“Yes, sometimes,” answered Jane in all sincerity.  “Not Fogarty, because he would be uncomfortable if he came, but many of the others just as humble.  We really have very few of any other kind.  I like them all.  Many of them love me dearly.”

“Not at all strange; nobody can help loving you,” and she patted Jane’s shoulder with her jewelled fingers.

“But you like them, too, don’t you?  You treat them as if you did.”