"Why, this is dreadful!" Janet could but smile at Devant's indifferent face. "I suppose you couldn't cook for yourself even if you were starving. I wonder if I might do something for you now?"
"Take no trouble,"—Devant waved her back,—"I took precautions before I left town, and Mrs. James B. will be over as soon as she hears I'm home. I'm getting initiated. What are you reading, Janet?"
"The Essays. I found the place where we left off. They're rather dry, but I like them."
"When you do not like a really good thing," Devant said, going to his easy-chair, "read it until you do. Bring the book here, child! I haven't read aloud since you and I were alone before."
Janet arose, and as she did so something dropped at her feet. She stooped to pick it up, looked a bit surprised and confused, and slipped it into her blouse.
"What was that?" Devant asked.
"My—" Janet paused; "it was my mother's picture! I always carry it in my waist now. I dropped it."
"May I see it?"
"Cap'n Daddy said"—how long ago it seemed—"that I had better not show it, it seems as though she belonged just to Cap'n Billy and me. But then you are different. I think Cap'n Billy would not mind if you saw her. She was so pretty!" Janet came to the table, laid the book upon it, and then drew—two photographs from her blouse!
"Why!" she exclaimed, turning pale and stepping back, "why! I'm—I'm—why, something has happened. Look here!"