“I wish you would,” said Anita, her eyes cast down. “His sister was very dear to me. She died two years ago, and I’ve lost trace of him since. But I know there are none of his immediate family living.” She was trying to excuse her deep interest, and Murray answered heartily:
“I’ll lose no time in letting you know when I find him,” he promised, “I think he is alive. I have reason—but I can’t tell you about that yet.”
He noticed a look of relief in her face as he spoke, but several people who had been talking with the minister came down the aisle just then and separated them, and he went on to where Mrs. Summers waited for him.
Half shyly he looked up, suddenly remembering that he must not be too confident. He was no longer Allan Murray, the Christian, whose name brought only honor. Perhaps Mrs. Summers would not feel like taking him back to her house now.
“Are you going to forgive me too—” he hesitated, “Mother?”
“My dear boy!” she said warmly, slipping her hand into his unobtrusively, and squeezing his fingers gently with her warm rose-leaf grasp.
He had a choking sensation in his throat as if he were going to cry like a child. It was so good to be forgiven and loved. This was real mother-love!
“Did you suppose I was going to stop caring for you just because you had a new name? You are not Allan Murray, but you are my boy, and you always will be.”
“That is great of you,” he said huskily, because somehow his throat seemed choked with tears, “I appreciate that more than you can ever know! I’m not Allan Murray, but you may call me Murray. That’s my own first name. That’s how it all came about. That girl came out and called me Mr. Murray, and for the first instant I thought some one had recognized me!”
“How strange!” she said. “What a coincidence! The Lord must really have sent you here.”