"She was," said the man softly. Then he asked, "Does your father never speak of her, nor those faithful servants John and Margie?"
"Never, sir; I used to ask questions about her, but they looked so sad that I gave it up. I fear her death had something painful about it."
Mr. Devering turned his eyes away from the boy toward me, they looked very troubled. Then he spoke quietly, "Some day I will take it upon myself to tell you all about your dear mother."
"You knew her?" cried the boy.
"Very well."
Dallas stopped short. His wonderful pale eyes were blazing. "You—knew—my—mother," he said in a low trembling voice.
"I have said so," remarked Mr. Devering quietly.
"I am glad I came," he said slowly. "Some boys have mothers, some have not. Some boys miss their mothers, some do not. I tell you, sir, it is a sore in my soul, a dreadful painful sore that I have no mother. If she had lived I would be like other boys."
The man put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "My lad," he said, "a great deal lies between you and me, but this is not the time to thrash things out. A day will come—later on."
It went to my heart to see the young lip tremble. Boys do not like to wait. "I hope—I hope," he muttered to himself, "that the day will soon come. If a boy has had a mother, he should know about her. I—I have not even a little picture of my dear mother, who of course was beautiful and good and loved her boy as no one else does."