"Paul, my son, I have been a wicked woman."
"Why, mother, you mustn't talk like that!"
"Wicked! My son, my silent, kindly, chivalric boy, will you forgive your mother? Your unnatural mother?"
He caught her before her knees touched the floor; and, ah! how hungrily her arms wound about him.
[Illustration: He That Was Dead.]
"What's the use of lying?" he cried brokenly. "My mother! I wanted to hear your voice and feel your arms. You don't know how I have always loved you. It was a long time, a very long time. Perhaps I was to be blamed. I was proud, and kept away from you. Don't cry. There, there! I can go away now, happy." Over his mother's shoulders, now moving with silent stabbing sobs, he held out his hand to his brother. Presently, above the two bowed heads, Warrington's own rose, transfigured with happiness.
The hall-door opened and closed, but none of them regarded it.
By and by the mother stood away, but within arm's length. "How big and strong you have grown, Paul."