“At last it is you! How—wonderful! And the boy.” Clarinda fell back into her chair. A great pallor spread over her cheeks, and with an effort she shook the tide from her. She arose from her chair, and staggered slightly. Peter stretched out his hand as if to stay her. As his hand came toward her, she moved slightly back.
“No!—No!—Peter,” she said. “It is not for you to forgive. My greatest sin has not been against you but against the boy. It lies with him, so let him think.”
Peter turned from her, and motioned to the younger man who was talking in a low tone to Tizzia. He beckoned to him and the young man advanced. He came until he stood quite close to his father.
Peter said quietly, “This is your mother.”
“You never told me, Father, where we were coming. I am unprepared. I don’t understand, I am so shocked. How beautiful she is. This is the first time in all my life I have ever heard you speak of her.”
“Yes,” answered Clarinda, “I am your mother.” She turned to Peter. “Peter,” she said, “you are bigger than I am, and after all you are a man. I have failed again.”
“What is done, is done,” he replied. “There are only a few years in front of me. I am well over sixty. You and I and the boy will go back. We will try.”
The boy knelt at his mother’s feet, and touched the hem of her dress, then he turned his eyes up to her.
“I’ve wanted a mother so much. I’ve dreamed of a mother, and at last I’ve found you.”
Clarinda wept. The tears went down her face, and she did not try to stem the torrent.