“Nothing has come to me,” Agnes broke out passionately. “I have been motherless and well-nigh fatherless, and tears have been my portion.”
“My lamb! My lamb!” the mother murmured brokenly. “You are no longer motherless, nor have ever been friendless; and, ah, my bairn, if you but knew what a comfort it was to me to hear from Archie M’Clean how brave and strong and helpful you have been.”
“I’ve not always been brave and strong, and I grew wild and naughty for a time till—till—they said I was like Polly. Have I grown like Polly, mother?”
“Only in some little gestures and tricks of speech, yet you might well imitate her in many ways.”
“So I say. Dear Polly, she has been so good, so good to me, and I love her and will not hear anything against her.”
“You are right to be loyal, but now, my lamb, it is late and you are tired.”
“And how tired you must be, too. Go to bed, dearest of mothers. I shall be so happy to know you are near me.”
“And yet a moment ago you were not happy, even with your mother.”
“I was very naughty. Please forget that wild talk.”
But the mother did not forget, and she looked with critical eyes upon Parker Willett when he appeared a few days later. She saw a tall, dignified young man, slim, dark eyed, dark haired, with resolute chin and a mouth whose grave lines gave rather a severity to the face except when the man smiled, and then one noticed both humor and sweetness.