“Don't you need more?”
“No; there is no need now.”
“Why is there not?”
Paul was silent. “I cannot go into particulars. It is a long story.”
“Does the purpose still exist?” his mother asked sharply.
“It does; but not as a claim—for that sort of help.”
“Let me know if such a claim should ever return.”
“I will, mother,” said Paul.
There came a day when mother and son reaped the reward of their mutual forbearance. There was a night and a day when Paul became a boy again in his mother's hands, and she took the place that was hers in Nature. She was the priestess acquainted with mysteries. He followed her, and hung upon her words. The expression of her face meant life and death to him. The dreadful consciousness passed out of his eyes; tears washed it out as he rose from his knees by Moya's bed, and his mother kissed him, and laid his son in his arms.