Evening came with melody in the music-room; midnight, and Henry sat alone in his room. He was heavy with sadness. The feeling that henceforth his success must depend upon the skill of his hypocrisy, and that he must at last die a liar, lay upon him with cold oppression. Kindness was a reproach and love was a censure. Some one tapped at the door.
"Come in."
Mrs. Witherspoon entered. "I just wanted to see if you were comfortable," she said, seating herself in a rocking-chair.
"So much so that I am tempted to rebel against it," he answered.
She smiled sadly. "There are so many things that I wanted to say to you, dear, but I haven't had a chance, somehow."
Her eyes were tear-stricken and her voice trembled. "It isn't possible that you could know what a mother's love is, my son."
"I didn't know, but you have taught me."
"No, not yet; but I will—if you'll let me."
"If I'll let you?" He looked at her in surprise.
"Yes, if you will bear with me. Sit here," she said, tapping the broad arm of the chair. He obeyed, and she took his arms and put them about her neck. "There hasn't been much love in my life, precious. Perhaps I am not showy enough, not strong enough for the place I occupy."