Mother might see it." My grate contained its summer accumulation of waste paper.

She laid the picture on this and I lighted the pyre.
"Your mother will see your eyes," I said.
"She has seen them so before." And she gave me her hand, which I kissed.
"Poor Little Miss!" I said, still holding it.
"Not poor now--you have given me back so much.

I can believe again--I can believe almost as much as Jim." But I released her hand.

Though her eyes had not quitted mine, their look was one of utter friendliness..