Clem, in his most formal dress, received me ceremoniously at the door, his look betraying only the faintest, formalest acknowledgment of having ever encountered mine before.

With a superb bow toward the drawing-room and in tones stiffly magnificent, he announced, "Mistah Calvin Blake." It was excellently done, but I knew he had rehearsed the "Mistah." Then a woman rose from one of the deep old chairs to offer me her hand, and a soft quick laugh came as she perceived my difficulty, for my one hand held the roses.

These she gathered gracefully into her left hand, while her right fell into mine with a swift little pressure as she bade me welcome.
"Clem has told me of you, Mr.Blake.I feel that you are one of us.

Let me thank you at once for the consideration you have shown him." In the half light I hesitated awkwardly enough to speak her name, for I felt that this could not be the mother of Little Miss.

Rather was it the daughter herself.