'You are beautiful--beautiful!' with another defiant look. My mother shook her hand in mild remonstrance. 'You are--you are! But you're pale and thin, and you've got lines here--and here.' I smoothed them with my hand. 'And, mother, you're not old!'
'I'm forty, Chris.'
'That is not old. Tell me--why did you alter so?'
'Time and trouble alter us, dear. We can't be always bright.'
I thought that I might be the trouble she referred to, and I asked the question anxiously.
'You, my darling!' she said, drawing me to her side and petting me. 'You are my joy, my comfort! I live only for you, Chris--only for you!'
I noticed something here, and, with a touch of that logical argumentativeness for which I was afterwards not undistinguished, I said:
'If I am your joy and comfort, you ought to be glad.'
'And am I not glad? What does my little boy mean by his roundabouts?'
'You cried when you said I was your joy and comfort.'