She had not pretended to misunderstand him. She had known for days, it almost seemed to her that she had known before he did, the trend that his life was taking. There had been no word between them, but Erskine had told her once, that he believed she knew his thoughts almost as soon as they were born, and he seemed to take her knowledge for granted.
She was glad that she had controlled her voice, and that her answer had been quick and free:—
"Yes, indeed, my son; God bless and prosper you."
She knew he would be prospered. At least a woman knows a woman's heart. They would be happy together, they two.
Two, and two, and two, everywhere! the youth and maiden, the mature man and woman, the father and mother who were smiling together over their son's espousals, always "they two."
It had been "they two" once with her. And again, and for many years, mother and son; but now—It seemed for a moment to the lonely woman as though the whole world beside was paired and wedded and only herself left desolate. She pressed her hands firmly against the balls of her closed eyes. Should she let one tear mar this night of her son's new joy?
And then, tenderly, like drops of balm upon an aching wound, came the echo in her soul of an old, old pledge: "With everlasting loving-kindness will I have mercy on thee, said the Lord, thy Redeemer... I will betroth thee unto me in faithfulness."
"I am a happy woman," she said aloud, in a quiet voice; "I am blessed in my home, and in my—children, and in the abiding presence of my Lord."
THE PANSY BOOKS.