"Would it be any comfort to learn that he knew you?"
"Yes.... Thank you."
The doctor nodded and said in a hearty voice: "Oh, we've got to pull him through somehow. That's what I'm here for." And he went away briskly across the lawn.
"What are you going to do?" asked Constance in a low voice.
"I don't know; write to my father, I think."
"You ought not to sit up after such a journey."
"Do you suppose I could sleep to-night?"
Constance drew her into her arms; the girl clung to her, head hidden on her breast.
"Shiela, Shiela," she murmured, "you can always come to me. Always, always!—for Garry's sake.... Listen, child: I do not understand your tragedy—his and yours—I only know you loved each other.... Love—and a boy's strange ways in love have always been to me a mystery—a sad one, Shiela.... For once upon a time—there was a boy—and never in all my life another. Dear, we women are all born mothers to men—and from birth to death our heritage is motherhood—grief for those of us who bear—sadness for us who shall never bear—mothers to sorrow everyone.... Do you love him?"
"Yes."