He took the child in his arms and studied his face intently, smiling over his pretty motions in a grave, absent-minded way; then he gave him back with a question:—
"Can you banish him, mamma, for a little while? I want to talk with you."
"Yes, indeed," she said. "Rebecca can take him for a walk. I will have him ready in a few minutes."
He watched the process of robing and kissing, with eyes that seemed not to see; and that troubled his mother, they were so full of pain.
When the baby was gone, and Ruth had closed the doors leading into other rooms and seated herself near to him, he seemed to have forgotten that he wanted to talk.
His eyes were fixed on the far-away hills that towered skyward, and were snow-capped; and yet she was not sure that he saw them.
"Mother," he said at last, "she told me you were a good woman, and it is true. I have always been able to anchor to you. We have trusted each other utterly, you and I, and spoken plainly to each other; we must always do so. You have something to tell me. Will you begin at the beginning and let me have all that you know? Don't try to spare me, please; I want the whole. O mother! If I had only known long ago, it might have been—different."
There was no reply that she could make to this.
After a moment, he said again: "You know that I am not blaming you, don't you? It was what I might have expected of you, what you did; she thought it was wonderful. But if she could only have trusted me!
"Will you tell me the whole, mamma? Irene told me to ask you; she said you would not tell it without her word. I mean about the man, and—the child; all the details. How did you hear of it all, and when?"