When they were alone, Barbara stood before her son. Slowly her eyes filled with the intense love which up to that moment she had suppressed in her heart. She reached forth her arms and, without understanding the power of natural affection that urged him on, Norman wound his arms around her neck, and resting her head on his shoulder, broke into a passion of grief that shook his whole frame. She trembled in his arms, not with sorrow, but thrilled with a joy so intense that it lifted her into a state of wonderful exaltation.
"He loves me completely, with more than filial devotion, and yet knows nothing of our kinship—never dreams that I—even I—am his mother," she thought. "After this one moment I should of a truth be ready to die, for the bliss of a life-time falls upon me now."
But that craving affection which never was, and never will be, fully satisfied in a loving woman's heart, demanded an assurance of this feeling in words. She drew her head back, and looked into Norman's face.
"And you love me?" she said, passing her hand over his hair in an unconscious caress. "My noble boy, you love me!"
"If I could but explain how much, and with what pure, pure affection! Surely the Catholics must worship their saints as I worship you. My love for you is made up of tenderness and prayer. I shall never kneel to my God hereafter without feeling that you are near him."
"And near you, also, my—my friend. If spirits are ever permitted to retrace their steps in the eternal progress, no grief shall ever reach you that I will not be near to soothe."
"My heart will feel your presence, and take comfort from it, sweet mother."
"Mother! boy—boy! Why did you call me mother?"
"If I did so, the word escaped my lips unconsciously. Forgive it."
"Forgive it—yes, yes, my son, I can forgive it, for the word has a sweet sound."