“I am sure nothing would change him. You see, he has had this idea ever since he was a mere child. It has grown with him. It is so interwoven with the very fibres of his being that it could not be uprooted. No, no, Bob, it will have to stand. If I can bear it, surely you can.”
“If you can bear it,” he answered. “Oh, yes, you can bear it. You will wave your handkerchief and smile as the gates close upon him, and then you’ll come home and die of a broken heart!”
“Don’t,—don’t,” she begged, piteously.
“Forgive me, Stella; I didn’t mean to hurt you so. But I’ve a scheme to stop this foolishness and make you happy, and the boy, too.”
She shook her head hopelessly, but her brother patted her on the shoulder and said, “But yes, I say. Will you be a party to it?”
For one moment her eyes flashed up with a look of hope, then it died out as she said slowly, “I cannot conspire against my boy and what I know to be his earnest desire.”
“Well, don’t,” was the brusque reply. “Your co-operation isn’t necessary anyway. But you and Robert will come next week to visit me as you promised, won’t you?”
After Mrs. Malloy nodded in reply, he walked out of the room with his coat-tails expressing satisfaction.
He had not been gone long when the door was gently opened, and a young man entered. Coming up to Mrs. Malloy, he stooped and kissed her on the forehead. The look of passionate adoration she gave him was not surprising, for he was undeniably good to gaze upon. He was tall, well formed and athletic in build, with the fresh coloring, the warm, honest gray eyes, clear-cut features and rippling dark hair of a long race of Celtic ancestors. His brow was frank and noble, his smile charming. There was nothing about him to suggest the parochial calling he was about to adopt. He looked merely a healthy, wholesome, happy and unusually handsome young fellow.
“Always cheerful, little mother,” he said, balancing himself on the arm of her chair, and meeting her smile with tender, earnest eyes. “That thought makes me very happy, for I know you are never lonely, and will not mope after I am gone, as some mothers would.”