"Tell me," she murmured.
"About what, darling?"
"About your lit—about your boy."
She never tired hearing about this wonderful son, and Cleland never tired of telling about Jim, so they were always in accord on that subject.
Often Cleland tried to read in the gravely youthful eyes uplifted to his the dreamy emotions which his narrative evoked—curiosity, awe, shy delight, frank hunger for a playmate, doubt that this wonder-boy would condescend to notice her, wistfulness, loneliness—the delicate tragedy of solitary souls.
Always her gaze troubled him a little, because he had not yet told his son of what he had done—had not written to him concerning the advent of this little stranger. He had thought that the best and easiest way was to tell Jim when he met him at the railroad station, and, without giving the boy time to think, brood perhaps, perhaps worry, let him see little Stephanie face to face.
It seemed the best way to John Cleland. But, at moments, lying alone, sleepless in the night, he became horribly afraid.
It was about that time that he received a letter from Miss Rosalinda Quest:
DEAR MR. CLELAND:
Will you bring the child out to Bayford, or shall I call to see her when business takes me into town?