“That I could not forgive him yet, not till I saw that he was truly sorry for the past.”
“You told him this, Eve?”
“Yes, aunt dear. Was it wrong?”
“Wrong, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, embracing her, as the tears started to her eyes.
“No; it was most maidenly and true. But, Eve, my child, some day you may be a mother—some day you may have a son, over whose welfare your heart will yearn, and for whom you would be ready to do anything—even to committing a crime to save him from a downward course.”
“Aunt!” cried the girl, looking up at her wonderingly, for she was speaking now in eager excited tones.
“Yes, child; ready to screen him, forgive him, bear the penalty of his sins, anything to save him from pain, suffering, or the retribution he has been calling down upon his head.”
“Oh, aunt,” cried the girl, in awe-stricken tones, “is it like this to be a mother?”
“No, no, my child: all sons are not like this. But it is a mother’s agony to feel that if her boy turns from the straightforward course, she may herself be perhaps to blame; that by indulgent weakness, by giving up the reins of government too soon, she may have caused him to go astray; and—Eve—Eve—my darling, this is my fate, and it is you alone who can save my boy.”
“Aunt!”