"I don't see how—" she began, but checked herself. A slight flush mounted in her cheeks.
"See how what, mother? Please don't leave me dangling; I'm willing to take all you can give. I deserve it."
"I wasn't going to blame you, Champney. I'm the last one to do that—Life teaches each in her own way. I was only thinking I didn't see how any girl could resist loving you, dear."
"Oh, ho! Don't you, mother mine! Well, commend me to a doting—"
"I'm not doting, Champney," she protested, laughing; "I know your faults better than you know them yourself."
"A doting mother, I say, to brace up a man fallen through his pride. Do you mean to say"—, he sprang to his feet, faced her, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his face alive with the fun of the moment,—"do you mean to say that if you were a girl I should prove irresistible to you? Come now, mother, tell me, honor bright."
She raised her eyes to his. The flush faded suddenly in her cheeks, leaving them unnaturally white; her eyes filled with tears.
"I should worship you," she said under her breath, and dropped her head into her hands. He sprang up the steps to her side.
"Why, mother, mother, don't speak so. I'm not worthy of it—it shames me. Here, look up," he took her bowed head tenderly between his hands and raised it, "look into my face; read it well—interpret, and you will cease to idealize, mother."
She wiped her eyes, half-smiling through her tears. "I'm not idealizing, Champney, and I didn't know I could be so weak; I think—I think the telegram and your coming so unexpectedly—"