The boy stood between them, straight as a young sapling, the radiance of his blond head like a beam of sunlight, a bow of promise across a cloud.
"No—no," said the old man thoughtfully. "I see it now in you and me, Larry—there's the same blood. But I don't see it in the boy."
"John isn't like any of us, anyhow," said Laurence, with the tender tones that he always had for this child. "He makes us look like a couple of scarred old logs, doesn't he?"
"Ah, youth—that's the pure gold," said the old man softly.
The boy smiled, deprecating, shrinking a little from their gentle scrutiny.
"It isn't that alone, there's something else, that's unaccountable," Laurence pondered, as if speaking to himself.
"It's the mother, perhaps—he's more like her. That's a different strain," said the old man.
Laurence turned and looked across the room. Mary had risen, was still talking to Lavery, but she was looking straight at them, at the group before the mirror.
"Mary, come here a minute," called Laurence.