She nodded mutely.
Then her hand gripped fiercely at his coat lapel. A great dread filled her. Must she lose also her boy, for whom she had lived, for whom she had denied herself all these years—the boy who was more than life itself to her? Her face was white. She looked up into another face, a strange face, that of her son; and it was white as her own.
"I didn't know it," said he simply at length. "Of course, if I had known, I wouldn't have done what I did. I would have worked."
"No, no! Now you are just fitted to work. It's over—it's done—we have put you through."
"You told me my father was dead. Where is he—who is he?"
"I will never tell you, Don," said she steadily, "not so long as you live will I tell you. I have never told anyone on earth, and I never will."
"Then how do they know—then why should that man say what he did?"
"They know—about you—that—that you happened—that's all. They thought you died as a child, a baby—we sent you away. They don't know who it was—your father—I couldn't have lived here if anyone had known—that was my secret—my one secret—and I will keep it all my life. But here are you, my boy! I will not say I am sorry—I will never say that again! I am glad—I'm glad for anything that's given me you! And you fought for me—the first time anyone ever did, Don."
He was turning away from her now slowly, and she followed after him, agonized.
"It wasn't your fault, Don!" said she. "Try to remember that always. Haven't I taken it up with God—there on my knees?" She pointed to the little room where the corner of the white bed showed. "On my knees!"