“Yes; but which is—was herself?”
“And you cannot see her story in her face?”
“Not that story.”
“Not the crushing reserve, the long suspense, the silence of a sorrow that even her children could not share?”
“I know her silence. Your mother is a most reticent woman. But is she now the woman of that story?”
“I don't understand you quite,” said Paul. “How much are we ourselves after we have passed through fires of grief, and been recast under the pressure of circumstances! She was that woman once.”
“The saddest part of the story to me is, that your father, who loved her so, and worked so hard for his family, should have served you all the better by his death.”
“Oh, don't say that, dear! Who knows what is best? But one thing we do know. The sorrow that cut my mother's life in two brought you and me together. It rent the stratum on which I was born and raised it to the level of yours, my lady!”
“I shall not forget,” whispered Moya with blissful irony, “that you are the Poor Man's son!”