Joyce came forward and leaned over the bed to kiss her brother while the old lady's hands joined theirs. Just as her fresh young lips came within reach he turned his face aside, so that the kiss fell on barren ground on his tanned cheek.
“Joyce,” continued the old lady, feverishly, “I am not afraid to die now, for Stephen is here. Your brother will take care of you, dear, when I am gone.”
It was strange that Stephen had not spoken yet; and it was perhaps just as well, because there are occasions in life when men do wisely to keep silent.
“He is strong,” the proud mother went on. “I can feel it. His hands are large and steady and quiet, and his arms are big and very hard.”
The young man knelt upright and submitted gravely to this maternal inventory.
“Yes,” she said, “I knew he would grow to be a big man. His little fingers were so strong—he hurt me sometimes. What a great moustache! I knew you had been a soldier. And the skin of your face is brown and a little rough. What is this? what is this, Stephen dear? Is this a wound?”
“Yes,” answered the Prodigal, speaking for the first time. “That is a sword cut. I got that in the last war. I am a colonel in the Chilian army, or was, before I resigned.”
The old lady's sightless eyes were fixed on his face, as if listening for the echo of another voice in his deep quiet tones.
“Your voice is deeper than your father's ever was,” she said; and all the while her trembling fingers moved lovingly over his face, touching the deep cut from cheek-bone to jaw with soft inquiry. “This must have been very near your eye, Stephen. Promise me, dear, no more soldiering.”
“I promise that,” he replied, without raising his eyes.