The boy took his hand away and she recovered the portfolio. He had replaced the pencil in the case.
"I should so like to give you the pencil," she said.
The boy shook his head decidedly. "No. He'd find it," he answered.
"I am very much interested about your mother being an artist," said Mrs. Lowell. "You know you are going to do everything you can to please her. She would be very sorry that your uncle has not made you happy. I am sure she wanted you to use your talent. So, very often we will take walks and I will get better materials for you than this, and you shall make many sketches."
The boy's brows drew together. It was evident that he was in such fetters of fear that the prospect was a mixed pleasure.
"Do you remember your father? When did he die?"
"I don't know. It was before—"
"Was he a kind father, and kind to your dear mother?"
"I don't know. Everybody was angry with her, all the rich people, because she—she ran away to marry him. Then she was left all—alone with me and—and she sold pictures and we were—" The voice stopped.