Katherine turned at that reiterated cry, and her heart melted within her. The boy was her own, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. From her he had life. From her he had also lifelong disgrace and deprivation. Was there anything then, which, he asking, she could refuse to give? She cast herself on her knees beside the bed again and buried her face in the sheet.
"My precious one," she sobbed, "forgive me. I am ashamed, for I have been both harsh and weak. I said I would help you, and then directly I fail you. Forgive me."
And the boy was amazed, speechless at first, seeing her broken thus; shamed in his turn by the humility of her attitude. To his young chivalry it was as an impiety to look upon her tears.
"Please don't cry, mother," he entreated tremulously, a childlike simplicity of manner taking him. "Don't cry—it is dreadful. I never saw you cry before."—Then, after a pause, he added: "And—never mind about my riding. I don't so very much care about it—really, I don't believe I do—after all."
At that dear lie Katherine raised her bowed head, a wonderful sweetness in her tear-stained face, tender laughter upon her lips. She drew the boy's hands on to her shoulders, clasped her hands across his extended arms, and kissed him upon the mouth.
"No, no, my beloved, you shall ride," she said. "You shall have your saddle—twenty thousand saddles if you want them. We will talk to Uncle Roger and Chifney to-night. All shall be as you wish."
"But you're not angry, mother, any more?" he asked, a little bewildered by her change of tone and by the passion of her lovely looks and speech.
Katherine shook her head, and still that tender laughter curved her lips.
"No, I am never going to be angry any more—with you at least, Dick. I must learn to be plucky too. A pair of us, Dickie, trying to keep up one another's pluck! Only let us go forward hand in hand, you and I, and then, however desperate our doings, I at least shall be content."