some time to get wonted to a new one." He gravely laid the old one within easy reach of his arm and restored the new one to its box. Then he sat himself near David and placed his hand kindly on his knee. "You—you have your work laid out for you, my young friend. It's the way in Old England. The stability of our society—our national life demands it."
"I know."
"You must go to your mother."
"Yes, I must go to her."
"Of course, of course, and without delay. Well, I'll take care of the little chap."
"I know you will, better than I could." David lifted his eyes to his old friend's, then turned them away. "I feel him to be a sacred trust." Again he paused. "It—would take a—long time to go to her first?"
"To—her?" For the instant the old man had forgotten Cassandra. Not so David.
"My wife. It will be desperately hard—for her."
"Yes, yes. But your uncle, you know, died of grief, and your m—mother—"
"I know—so the lawyer said. Now at last we'll read mother's