A moment they held each other. But there was no mistaking the thing, for, though the blush had quickly faded, an after glow lingered.
The older woman rose quickly to throw her arms about the other.
"My mad, mad child!" She stood off to search her face incredulously.
"He's alone, Aunt Kitty, and he's so defenseless. He believes in everyone more than in himself. He'll be cured of that some time, but just now I'm his only defender. Others are against him or stand neutral with talk of the 'world.' I can't blame you, dear, I think you must be right for yourself. But when he does awaken"—she narrowed her eyes on the other a moment in calculation—"then I shan't be ashamed to have him know it was always safe to believe in me—whether he was boy or man or no one at all—or less than no one. I'd never bother about names, dear—I'd never bother about names."
She smiled and drew the other close with little reassuring caresses. "You see names aren't much—the directory is full of them, and dreary enough reading they'd make. No, I'd not care for that. I'd only ask that he believe in himself as much as I believe in him, and care as little for names. And I warn you I mean to help him to that if I can."
The eyes of the other sparkled now. There was in her glance the excited admiration of a timid child who watches a reckless playmate dare some dark passage of evil repute for goblins.
"You mad—dear mad girl!" she said.
CHAPTER XXI
THE DRAMA IN NINTH STREET
EWING knew that his lady had come back. She had sent him a note the first day: "I am dining to-night with an old friend. But come to-morrow night."