"But you do not think now that you love her or loved her then?"
"No, mother; I know I do not, and did not."
"Then, Darrell, my boy, some one else has taught you what love really is?"
For answer Darrell bowed his head in assent over his mother's hand.
For a few moments she silently stroked his hair as in his boyish days; then she said, in low tones,—
"Answer me one question, Darrell: Was she a good, pure woman?"
Darrell raised his head, his eyes looking straight into the searching dark eyes, so like his own.
"My little mother," he replied, tenderly, "don't think that your teachings all the past years or the lessons of your own sweet life were lost in those two years; their influence lived even when memory had failed."
He bent and kissed her, then added: "She was scarcely more than a child; not so brilliant, perhaps, as Marion, but beautiful, good, and pure as the driven snow."