"Mom! I loved your little picture, but I never knew how much I loved you till now—why—you're my mother! My mother! And I've never seen you—I've never known you—till right now. You're a ripper, that's what you are!
"And is that where you live, over yonder?" he added quickly, to conceal the catch in his throat, the quick moisture in his eyes. His mother! And never in all his life had he seen her face—this sweet, strange, wistful, wonderful face. His mother! He had not even known she was alive. And now, so overwhelmed was he, he did not as yet even think of unraveling the veil of ignorance or deceit—call it what one might—which had left him in orphanage all his life till now.
"Yes, over yonder," said Aurora, and pointed across the square. "That little house under the shade trees, just at the corner. That's home and workshop for me, Don."
She spoke softly, her eyes still fixed on him, the color of her cheeks deepening.
"Not so much of a house, is it?" laughed the boy, tears on his face, born of his new emotion, so sudden, so tremendous and so strange.
"Not so very much," she assented, laughing gayly also, and also in tears, which gave him sudden grief—"but it has served."
"Well, never mind. We're going to do better out West, Mom. We're going to have you with us right away, as soon as I can get started."
"What—what do you say—with us! With us?"
She spoke in swift dismay, halting in her walk. "What do you mean, Don—us?"
"I didn't tell you the news," said he, "for I've just got it myself.