The mother who never had a son, gains one in you. The painter who never was an artist, becomes one in you!
And so, dear, I am your happy
Aunt Mary.
Mary Sidney and her boy exchanged a look. With unsteady hands Phil straightened the legal letter, and they read it together. Then they rose from the table with one accord.
Mrs. Fabian, wrapped in thought, looked up at the sudden movement.
Phil's concentrated gaze went past her to the fire, and he stood motionless, one hand leaning on the table, the other arm around his mother. Mary Sidney clasped the rustling paper to her breast. All the self-forgetfulness of mother-love shone in her wet eyes as she met Mrs. Fabian's questioning look.
"Isabel, I told you it would come," she said. "I told you we should know. The light is here. Phil is going to New York."