"I don't know."
Iver planted himself on a stool before the fire, where he could look up into Mehetabel's face, as she sat in the settle.
"You have your profession to attend to," she said. "You do not know your own mind. You are changeful as a girl."
"How can I go—with you here?" he exclaimed, vehemently.
She turned her head away. He was looking at her with burning eyes.
"Iver," she said, "I pray you be more loving to your mother. You have made her heart ache. It is cruel not to do all you can now to make amends to her for the past. She thinks that you do not love her. She is failing in health, and you must not drip drops of fresh sorrow into her heart during her last years."
Iver made a motion of impatience.
"I love my mother. Of course I love her."
"Not as truly as you should, Iver," answered Mehetabel. "You do not consider the long ache—"
"And I, had not I a long ache when away from home?"