one slim hand three moss-roses like the ones from the manor garden. Her face was beautiful and smiling, and Paul thought her lively hazel eyes dwelt on him.
"That was my mother," said Sir John.
The little boy slipped his hand into the old man's fingers and pressed them silently. "It was painted eighty-five years ago," Sir John went on dreamily, almost as if speaking to himself. "Eighty-five years ago. She was seventeen then, and when she was twenty—she died. Ah, yes! It's hard to be a motherless boy—hard—hard."
He was silent for a moment or two. Then he drew the veil over the portrait again, locked the door of the little room, and led Paul out into the open air. They passed across the velvet lawn, where no careless feet ever pressed the turf, and into the dear old flower-garden.
