For then—ah, then—a lad and his mother; a son come home, the wandering ended, and the sorrow done!
She took him to her breast as though he were a baby still; her tears ran down upon his face, yet she was smiling—a smile like which there is no other in all the world: a mother’s smile upon her only son, who was astray, but has come home again.
Oh, the love of a lad for his mother, the love of a mother for her son—unchanged, unchanging, for right, for wrong, through grief and shame, in joy, in peace, in absence, in sickness, and in the shadow of death! Oh, mother-love, beyond all understanding, so holy that words but make it common!
“My boy!” was all she said; and then, “My boy—my little boy!”
And after a while, “Mother,” said he, and took her face between his strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, “mother dear, I ha? been to London town; I ha’ been to the palace, and I ha’ seen the Queen; but, mother,” he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he smiled so bravely, “I ha’ never seen the place where I would rather be than just where thou art, mother dear!”
The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices drifted faintly from the town. The day was done. Cool and still, and filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood’s arms.