The mother's surprise was not less than his had been, and her tears fell fast over the sorrows of her sweet and gentle child.
"I take blame to myself for leaving her alone," she said, "and yet it was what seemed best at the time."
"I would not have you do so, mother, dear," he said, gazing tenderly into the patient yet troubled face whereon sorrow and care had left their deep and lasting traces, "no blame rightfully belongs to you; and let me say for your consolation, that if I read her aright, there is one drop of sweetness in this otherwise bitter cup, she will never love again."
She gave him one earnest look, then dropping her eyes, seemed lost in thought for several minutes.
"Yes," she said at length, "I think you are right. And she has passed this trying ordeal safely?"
"Yes."
Clasping her hands in her lap and lifting her eyes to heaven, "I thank thee, oh my Father, for that," she murmured in tones so low that the words scarcely reached Kenneth's ear.
He stood looking down upon her with loving, compassionate eyes. Ah, if it were but in his power to remove every thorn from her path!
That might not be, but her face had resumed its wonted expression of sweet and calm submission. She glanced up at him, her fine eyes full of affectionate pride.
"You have told me nothing yet of yourself, Kenneth. How fares it with you, my boy? Sit down here by my side and open all your heart to me as you used to do. I see you have something to tell," she added, watching the changes of his countenance as he took the offered chair, "something of joy and something of sorrow."