"Oh, no, mother," he said. "You're tired, and the maid is here for the purpose of doing that. Come into our little snuggery here." And he led the way into the room on which he had bestowed so much thought.
"Paul, my boy," she sobbed. "I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you! Aye, even although I cursed the day that you were born, and cursed God in the bitterness of my heart for the sorrow that came upon me, I'm proud of you! You are my own laddie! And now tell me everything, my lad!"
"No, mother, you're too tired and my story will take a long time!"
"No, I'm not tired," she said. "I feel as though I should never be tired again. It's all so wonderful—this beautiful home, given to me by my son! Oh, my lad, my lad!"
They sat down side by side, Paul holding his mother's hand in his. "To-morrow," he thought, "or as soon as she is well enough, I'll take her to Manchester, and she shall have the best clothes that money can buy! And when she's dressed as she ought to be, she will look young and handsome!"
And so, as they sat alone, he told the story of the past few years. Told of his struggles, of his fightings, and of his failures and successes, and how, little by little, he had obtained an education. Then he described the strike in the town, and the trial which ended in his imprisonment, and of his homecoming and his business life, and then of the election.
"But you'll win yet, Paul!" And her eyes flashed eagerly as she spoke. "My boy, you'll win yet!"
"Yes, I believe I shall win yet," he said. "Ay, I will, I must!"
"And what kind of a man is this Bolitho?" she asked. And Paul told her. He described the long duel he had had, and how up to the present Mr. Bolitho was the victor.
"And he's the Member of Parliament now?" said his mother.