"Where have you been?"
"Only in my room, mother."
"Doing what, my son?"
"Thinking —" he said a little unwillingly.
"Sit down and warm yourself," said his mother placing his chair again; — "Why, your hands are warm now?"
"Yes ma'am — I have been here a good while."
He sat down, where she had put his chair in front of the fireplace; and she stood warming herself before it, and looking at him. His face was in its usual calmness, and she thought as she looked it was an excellent face. Great strength of character — great truth — beneath the broad brow high intellectual capacity, and about the mouth a certain sweet self-possession; to the ordinary observer more cool than sweet, but his mother knew the sweetness.
"What are you thinking about, Winthrop?" she said softly, bending down near enough to lay a loving hand on his brow.
He looked up quickly and smiled, one of those smiles which his mother saw oftener than anybody, but she not often, — a smile very revealing in its character, — and said,
"Don't ask me, mamma."