He was silent.
"I could bear anything — it would make my life a garden of roses — if I were sure of having you with me in the next world."
"Mamma — you know I would —"
"I know you would, I believe, give your life to serve me, my boy. But till you love God as well as that, — you may be my child, but you are not his."
He was silent still; and heaving a sigh, a weary one, that came from very far down in her heart, she turned away again and sat looking towards the fireplace. But not at it, nor at anything else that mortal eyes could see. It was a look that left the things around her, and passing present wants and future contingencies, went beyond, to the issues, and to the secret springs that move them. An earnest and painful look; a look of patient care and meek reliance; so earnest, so intent, so distant in its gaze, that told well it was a path the mind often travelled and often in such wise, and with the self-same burden. Winthrop watched the gentle grave face, so very grave then in its gentleness, until he could not bear it; her cheek was growing pale, and whether with cold or with thinking he did not care to know.
He came forward and gently touched his cheek to the pale one.
"Mamma, do not look so for me!" he whispered.
She pulled him down beside her on the hearth, and nestled her face on his shoulder and wrapped her arms round him. And they strained him close, but he could not speak to her then.
"For whom should I look? or for what do I live? My boy! I would die to know that you loved Christ; — that my dear Master was yours too!"
The gently-spoken words tied his tongue. He was mute; till she had unloosed her arms from about him and sat with her face in her hands. Then his head sought her shoulder.