His door unclosed softly, but he did not turn his head. He knew that his mother had had visitors, and he supposed that she was now returning. He did not look at her—he knew that she could not bear to see the heavy sadness in his eyes.
A light step stole across the floor, and saying to himself, "She thinks me asleep," he gently closed his eyes. It was a harmless deception he often practiced upon her. Thinking him asleep, she would feel more content.
"Papa!" said a proud, happy little voice, and a soft hand fluttered down upon his own.
He opened his eyes with a start.
A child was standing beside him—a beautiful boy, with hair and eyes like his own, and his mother's wistful smile—Laurence Lynn!
"Laurie!" he cried.
"Yes, papa, I have come home to you. I am your son—really and truly. Are you not glad?" cried the child, who had been so loved and petted all his life that it was no vanity in him to imagine that any one must be proud and glad in possession of him.
Glad! St. Leon could not speak for a moment. He was dazed with the suddenness of the surprise.
He threw his arm about his son, and strained him to his heart; but his thoughts were with the mother more than the child.
"Did you come alone, dear?" he asked, as soon as he could command his voice.