“I’ve brought a book for you, Henry, that I think you will like,” she said, taking a handsomely bound volume out of her reticule and laying it on a stand at Henry’s elbow.
He picked it up. “Her book!” he thought exultingly. “I know it’s hers, for I’ve heard her speak of it. She sent it to me! Of course she did. She sent it!”
Once more his heart bounded with ecstasy; once more he was supremely happy. The blood rushed to his face; his lips quivered; his hands trembled.
The visitor remarked this, and turning to Mrs. Mortimer said sympathetically, “Poor boy! How patiently he bears it!”
Then, stepping up to the bedside, she laid her hands on his head, kissed his forehead gently and affectionately, and asked softly, “Is the pain very bad, Henry?”
It seemed to Henry that his heart stood still.
“It is her mother,” he thought, “and she has kissed me!”
Their eyes met. A woman perceives many things intuitively; Henry’s secret was hers from that moment. For all answer she kissed him again. From that day the two were firm and true friends.
When Henry found himself alone he examined every leaf of that book carefully.