These assuring words failed of their purpose, and he eyed her sidewise, and with suspicion. He was too old a bird to be fooled so easily. A few sprigs were torn from the box border within his reach as if the conversation bored him.
“I had a boy once,” continued Mrs. Judd. “I understand boys, and know just how you feel. We shall be good friends, I’m sure.”
After a pause devoted to serious reflection, he inquired:
“Did your boy like you?”
“Oh, yes.”
He came nearer and stood in front of her. Then, slowly and with the precision with which he always delivered himself when speaking English, he said:
“My mother was different from you, and her clothes were more beautiful, but if one boy liked you another might. I might. Would you like to see my mother’s portrait?”
Mrs. Judd said she would like very much to see it, and he began fumbling about and seemed to be tickling himself near the buckle of his belt. But, as it proved, he was ascertaining the whereabouts of a locket, which he finally fished up by means of a gold chain about his neck. The chain was of such a length that the locket, instead of reposing near the heart of the wearer, hung a little below the centre of the stomach. When it finally emerged above his collar, he placed the warm miniature in her hand, saying:
“That is my mother.”
It was a dark face, surmounted by a jewelled head-dress of a style that Mrs. Judd had never seen, even in pictures. After looking more carefully at the miniature and then up into the eyes that were watching hers, she found the same square forehead and sensitive mouth, and the same dark melancholy, heavily fringed eyes, by far the most beautiful she had ever seen. The picture in her hand was a truthful portrait of himself. As she looked from the portrait into the face before her she felt it was perhaps fortunate this mother was ignorant of the changes that already had turned the current of his life. With a brown hand on each of her knees he was looking into her eyes with the anxious gaze of a hungry soul, seeking for sympathy, and too proud to ask it. But Mrs. Judd understood. She laid a hand upon his shoulder with an expression upon her honest face that rendered words unnecessary. He blinked and swallowed in a mighty effort to suppress what he evidently considered an undignified and compromising sentiment. But in vain. Sinking upon his knees he buried his face in her lap and gave way to the most vehement, uncontrollable grief. The small frame shook with sobs, while her apron grew wet with tears. He took his sorrow with the same passionate recklessness that characterized his anger at the dinner-table. Mrs. Judd rested her hand upon the short black hair and tried to summon words of solace for a grief that seemed to threaten the integrity of his earthly body. She could only stroke his head and tell him not to be unhappy; that all would end well; that he should soon return home.