The ship anchored.
The swing stopped.
You were only a little boy.
"Mother," you said, softly, for your voice was drowsy with your dream.
She did not hear you. She sat there in the arbor-seat, smiling at you, her hands idle, her sewing slipping from her knees. You did not know it then, but you do now—that to see the most beautiful woman in the whole world you must be her little boy.
There in her garden, in her lap, with her arms around you and her cheeks between your hands, you gazed, wondering, into the blue fondness of her eyes. You saw her lips, forever smiling at you, forever seeking your own. You heard her voice, sweet with love-words—
"My dearest."
"Yes."
"My darling."
"Yes."