without closing them. The familiar gesture at once brought the lady to her proper niche in Judge Tyler's gallery of recollection.
"I remember you perfectly, Harmony," he said. There was neither surprise nor warmth in his tone, nor indeed coldness, rather a judicial tinct of noncommission. Whatever the tone, the lady's eyes drooped, almost tragically, before it, and she laid her hand with a charming free-arm gesture back on the rosy infant's shoulder. Judge Tyler, easily sure of himself, waited.
"This is my son—Tom," said the lady. Then she swayed, and Judge Tyler thrust out his right arm to prevent her falling.
"I won't fall," she said, as if that was the gist of her tragedy. "Really, I won't." It sounded like a daughter promising her mother to be good.
"Perhaps you would better step inside," said Judge Tyler.
"Yes, that's it," said she, "if I can just sit down a moment."
Her hand rested lightly into the judge's
