“If God had only blessed me with a daughter like you,” sighed Mary as she was strolling with her young companion. “It has ever been a sorrow to me that one of my sons was not a daughter.”
“Surely you do not love either of your sons less, just because he is a boy?” asked Victoria quickly.
“No-o,” said Mary, hesitatingly, “yet I would rather Andrew had been a girl.”
“She loves the absent one more dearly,” mused Victoria, looking at Mary’s speaking face. “Will you tell me about the son who is not here?” she asked, drawing Mary to a rustic seat and placing an arm about her.
“With pleasure, my love. You have seen his portrait, but that is cold, inanimate. It does not, cannot give you his winning charm of manner, his laughing voice, so full of hearty cheer. I miss him sadly, Victoria. He is a part of myself. We have never been separated so long before. The boys have often taken trips with their tutor while being educated, but never of very long duration, unless I went also. I long for his merry voice, always gay. I long to hear him say, ‘I am here, mother, mine.’”
“Why do you not send for him, Mrs. Willing? I am sure he will gladly return if he knows how you long for him.”
Mary gazed at the unconscious face of the beautiful girl. Dare she tell her what was in her mind? Dare she awaken thoughts which, until now, she was sure Victoria knew nothing of? Yes, she would. Her mother-love for the absent made her scent approaching danger, and she had noticed Andrew’s growing interest in her fair guest. She would speak. There could be no great harm in that. She took Victoria’s hand, and pressed it gently, while she looked directly into the sweet grey eyes.
“Roger is shy where ladies are, except, of course, his old mother. I fear he ran away to avoid you.”
A faint, pink flush covered Victoria’s face, and neck, and she quickly drew her hand from Mary’s.
“I am sorry,” she said, simply. “My mother and I will proceed on our travels to-morrow.”