"I must speak to Traverse himself and warn him against this snare," she said, as she afterward ruminated over the subject.
And accordingly that evening, when she had retired to her chamber and heard Traverse enter the little adjoining room where he slept, she called him in, and gave him a seat, saying that she must have some serious conversation with him.
The boy looked uneasy, but took the offered chair and waited for his mother to speak.
"Traverse," she said, "a change has come over you recently that may escape all other eyes but those of your mother; she, Traverse, cannot be blind to anything that seriously affects her boy's happiness."
"Mother, I scarcely know what you mean," said the youth in embarrassment.
"Traverse, you are beginning to think too much of Miss Day."
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed the boy, while a violent blush overspread and empurpled his face! Then in a little while and in faltering tones he inquired. "Have I betrayed, in any way, that I do?"
"To no one but to me, Traverse, to me whose anxiety for your happiness makes me watchful; and now, dear boy, you must listen to me. I know it is very sweet to you, to sit in a dark corner and gaze on Clara, when no one, not even herself, witnesses your joy, and to lie awake and think and dream of her when no eye but that of God looks down upon your heart; and to build castles in the air for her and for you; all this I know is very sweet, but, Traverse, it is a sweet poison—fatal if indulged in—fatal to your peace and integrity."
"Oh, my mother! Oh, my mother! What are you telling me!" exclaimed Traverse, bitterly.
"Unpalatable truths, dear boy, but necessary antidotes to that sweet poison of which you have already tasted too much."