The mother said nothing, asked nothing. A moment later he went on of his own accord. "I don't mean to make excuses, mother," he began, "but I didn't really deliberately break the promise I gave you—and that comforts me a lot. But it was one night I was out at a Southern family's home—they had just come lately to the city, and Dr. Wallis knew them. Well, they had refreshments; and they had a lot of queer Southern dishes. One was a little tiny thing—they called it a syllabub, or something like that; I had never heard of it before. And I took it—it had wine in it—and oh, mother," his eye lighting and his voice heightening at the memory, "no one will ever know—it was like as if something took fire. I didn't know what it meant—I seemed so helpless. And I fought and I struggled—and I prayed—and I wrote out my promise to you and I used to read it over and over. And I was beaten, mother—I couldn't help it," he cried pitifully, his voice echoing every note of pain—"and then I felt everything was up and I had nothing more to fight for, and I just—oh, I can't tell you; it maddens me when I think of it—nobody'll ever know it all. And Miss Farringall tried so to help me—so did Dr. Wallis—but I wouldn't let anybody. I turned on them," he exclaimed fiercely; "and I tried to forget about you, mother—I tried to forget about you and Jessie. Then I played the coward. I came back afterwards to Miss Farringall, and I—I borrowed money from her;" he forced the words like one who tells a crime. "And after that——"

Thus ran the piteous tale. The mother spoke no word for long, staunching the flowing wound as best she could and by such means as only mothers know. And she mutely wondered once or twice whether this—or that other night—had brought the deeper darkness.

But when his voice was still; when the poor wild wailing that had rung through it all had hushed itself, as it were, within the shoreless deep of her great, pitying love, she asked him another question:

"How much did you borrow from Miss Farringall, Harvey?" the voice as calm as if no storm of grief had ever swept it.

"Five dollars, mother," he answered, the crimson face averted. "But I know one or two things I can deny myself this term—and that'll pay it back;" the glance that stole towards his mother was the look of years agone.

Without a word, dignity in every movement, she rose and made her way to a little bowl that stood on the table. From it she took an envelope, her fingers searching it; then she handed him its contents, the exact amount.

He broke out in loud protest; but she was firm. "You haven't anything there that you can afford to give up," she said quietly, "and we can afford this, dear—but not the other. Take it for mother's sake," as she thrust the bill into his hand. It was worn and faded; but his eyes fell upon it as upon a sacred thing, hallowed by the love and sacrifice and courage that had wakened many a holy vow in his heart before. As they did now again, this latest token burning the hand that held it, melting the heart that answered its appeal of love.

And the mother's tryst began anew; closer than ever she clung to her unseen Helper; more passionately than before she turned her waiting eyes towards the long tarrying Light.

XXI

A HEATED DEBATE