"You always were secretive and unlike other people," she said, in acute maternal satisfaction and appreciation. "Of all the boys on the hill there was none as clever as you in keeping his own counsel."
"So you think, but remember that I happened to be your son," he said, protestingly.
"Others have remarked it. Even your teachers said they could never make you out," and her caressing glance swept tenderly over his dark curly head, his pallid face, and slender figure.
His satirical yet affectionate eyes met hers, then he looked at the fire. "Mother, it is getting hot in Boston."
"Hot, Vesper?" and she stretched out one little white hand towards the fireplace.
"This is an exceptional day. The wind is easterly and raw, and it is raining. Remember what perfect weather we have had. It is the first of June; it ought to be getting warm."
"I do not wish to leave Boston until the last of the month," said the little lady, decidedly, "unless,—unless," and she wistfully surveyed him, "it is better for your health to go away."
"Suppose, before we go to the White Mountains, I take a trial trip by myself, just to see if I can get on without coddling?"
"I could not think of allowing you to go away alone," she said, with a shake of her white head. "It would seriously endanger your health."