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“How I should love to take him in my arms and kiss him, the baby! But I suppose I daren’t do anything of the sort. . . . Tony,” she began, after a little time. The grey eyes turned to her.

“Won’t you tell me a little about yourself? Don’t think I’m curious, or tell more than you want to, but tell me—had you been long in Philadelphia, and were you quite alone? And what do you generally do for a living?”

Tony had been expecting this. He answered as briefly as possible.

“I only came here the day before I—the accident. I’d been in California and Illinois before that, and worked my way East. I was in Australia before that, droving, and worked my way over in a sailing ship. I’ve done just anything that happened to turn up always.”

“Always? But you’re not so very old now.”

“No; but I’ve mostly had to look out for myself.”

“But there must be some relations———”

“None to do anything for me.”

Alison was leaning forward, her elbows on the bed. Her eyes, shadowy and soft, were on a level with the boy’s, which gazed straight into hers for what seemed a long time. Then Alison’s suddenly grew misty, a queer little thrill ran through Tony, and the next minute her arms were round him and she was murmuring loving words that mothers use through her kisses. For one wild moment he clung to her desperately, even kissed the soft cheek pressed to his—then both heard the nurse’s footstep outside the door, Alison went hastily to open it, and Tony heard her exclamation of “Jelly-time, is it, nurse? Don’t you think we might vary that a little now?”

She talked on for a few moments, to give the boy time to recover himself; already she regretted having yielded to the temptation to “mother” him, knowing it was a