Blake was about to laugh, but he looked at the young face, suddenly grown grave, and his own words came back to him guiltily. 'Max's lips were made for laughter—his eyes are too bright for tears!'
"Poor little faun!" he said, with jesting tenderness. "Have I misjudged you?"
Max nodded seriously. "You have. She has made me realize."
"Ah! That was like her!" It was Blake's turn to walk to the window; and the boy, watching him eagerly, was unable to place the constraint that suddenly tinged his voice, suddenly veiled his manner.
"Ned," he was urged to say, "tell me! Has she brought us nearer together—my sister Maxine?"
Blake hesitated; for even your Irishman, brimming to confide, is reticent when he stands before his holy of holies.
"Ned, tell me!"
The tone was enticing. Blake turned from the window, strode back across the room, cast an affectionate arm about the boy's shoulder.
"She is a worker of miracles—your sister Maxine!"
The words were warm, the clasp was warm; Max's inspiration gushed up, a fountain of faith.