Tom did not speak; something was worrying him, more than worrying him, but it was not a thing he could exactly tell his mother.
She looked up fondly into his eyes.
“My dear,” she asked, “can I help you in anything? I am sure there is something wrong.”
“You are quite right,” he answered abruptly.
“What is it, Tom? Surely you can trust your mother.”
“Oh, I can’t tell you about it.”
He said this very impatiently, and Mrs. Henderson looked at him anxiously.
“Is it about some woman, Tom?” she said.
Tom replied by a sort of a groan.
“I wish you would marry, Tom,” continued Mrs. Henderson, earnestly. “Many mothers don’t wish their sons to marry because they say it takes them away from themselves, but I don’t feel this. Your happiness would be mine. Tom, a little bird has whispered to me that you run after a certain very pretty girl; is this true?”