“From Joe?—­is that so?” Rachael looked up interestedly.  “I hadn’t heard it, and somehow I don’t believe it!  They have a curious affinity through all their adventures.  Poor little Bill, it hasn’t been much of a life!”

“They say she is going on the stage,” Alice pursued, “which seems a pity, especially for the child’s sake.  He’s an attractive boy; we saw him with her at Atlantic City last winter—­one of those wonderfully dressed, patient, pathetic children, always with the grown-ups!  The little chap must have a rather queer life of it drifting about from hotel to hotel.  They’re hard up, and I believe most of the shops and hotels have actually black-listed them.  He would seem to be the sort of man who cannot hold on to anything, and, of course, there’s the drinking!  She’s not the girl to save him.  She drinks rather recklessly herself; it’s a part of her pose.”

“I wonder if she would let the youngster come down here and scramble about with my boys?” Rachael said unexpectedly.  She had not seriously thought of it; the suggestion came idly.  But instantly it took definite hold.  “I wonder if she would?” she added with more animation than she had shown for some time.  “I would love to have him, and of course the boys would go wild with joy!  I would be so glad to do poor old Billy a good turn.  She and I were always friends, and had some queer times together.  And more than that”—­Rachael’s eyes darkened—­“I believe that if I had had the right influence over her she never would have married Joe.  I regarded the whole thing too lightly; I could have tried, in a different way, to prevent it, at least.  I am certainly going to write her, and ask for little Breckenridge.  It would be something to do for Clarence, too,” Rachael added in a low tone, and as if half to herself, “and for many long years I have felt that I would be glad to do something for him!  To have his grandson here—­ doesn’t it seem odd?-and perhaps to lend Billy a hand; it seems almost like an answer to prayer!  He can sleep on the porch, between the boys, and if he has some old clothes, and a bathing suit—­”

“My dear Billy,” she wrote that night, “I have heard one or two hints of late that you have a good many things in your life just now that make for worry, and am writing to know if my boys and I may borrow your small son for a few weeks or a month, so that one small complication of a summer in the city will be spared you.  We are down here on Long Island on a strip of high land that runs between the beautiful bay and the very ocean, and when Jim and Derry are not in the one they are apt to be in the other.  It will be a great joy to them to have a guest, and a delight to me to take good care of your boy.  I think he will enjoy it, and it will certainly do him good.

“I often think of you with great affection, and hope that life is treating you kindly.  Sometimes I fancy that my old influence might have been better for you than it was, but life is mistakes, after all, and paying for them, and doing better next time.