But at first there were no words. He had fallen on his knees before her; he had put his arms around her; he was pressing his head against her breast while, trembling as she trembled, he said:--"Mother--Mother--Mother." All barriers had fallen at the cry. It was the cry of the exile, the banished thing, returning to its home. He pressed against the heart to which she had never herself dared to draw him. But, incredulous, she parted her hands and looked down at him; and still she did not dare enfold him. "Augustine--do you understand?--Do you still love me?--" "Oh Mother," he gasped,--"what have I been to you that you can ask me!" "You can forgive me?" Amabel said, weeping, and hiding her face against his hair. They were locked in each other's arms. And, his head upon her breast, as if it were her own heart that spoke to her, he said:--"I will atone to you.--I will make up to you--for everything.--You shall be glad that I was born." End of Project Gutenberg's Amabel Channice, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick