She had gathered up her shawl, haughtily, and was about to leave the room; but his voice struck upon her like a spell; the folds of her shawl dropt downward, and for once, yielding to a warm, natural impulse, she burst into a passion of tears, and received the youth in her arms.
"Oh, mother, bear with me; you would, did you know how I have pined for a mother's love."
She did not speak, but kissed his forehead two or three times, and sat down subdued, with gentler affections than she had ever shown before.
"Not only to me, mother, but to my wife. Will you not love my wife?"
Mary was drawn forward, for one arm of her husband was around her, and stood with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks, waiting for the repulse, which seemed inevitable.
Mrs. Farnham looked at him, and something of the old scorn curled her lip. Mary slowly lifted her eyes, full of meek solicitude, and even her mother-in-law's heart was touched.
"Well, well, make him a good wife, and I'll try to love you."
"I," said the youth, whom we have known as young Farnham—"I have no longer a mother."
"No," said uncle Nat, arising and opening his arms; "but you have an old uncle and aunt that will divide their last crust with you. Sister, sister, he looks like Anna, now, with the tears in his eyes."
Aunt Hannah turned; it was the first time in her life that she had ever looked her nephew full in the face, and now a consciousness of the wrong she had done made her timid; she stood before him with downcast eyes, trembling and afraid.