They were in Helen's writing-room. The room where so often she had struggled to put enough life into her weak little verses to send them winging on their way. The drawers of her desk were full of sad fancies that had been still-born, or had come fluttering back to her ark without even the twig of hope to cheer her. But at all this she had never repined--she had her son! And now? Well, he was leaving her. Might never---- Sitting in the warmth and glow the woman looked at her son. With all the yearning of her soul she wanted to keep him; she had so little; so little. And then she recognized, as women do, in the Temple where the Most High speaks to them, that if he turned a deaf ear to the best that was in him, she could not honour him. "You have been happy, dear son? I mean you have had a happy life on the whole?" Helen had wanted that above all else. His life had been so short--it might be so soon over, and the trivial untalked-of things rose sharply now to the surface. "Yes, Mother. Far too happy and easy." "I've been thinking." Helen's thought went slowly over the backward road--she must not break! But she must go back to the things they had left unspoken. "I've been thinking, during the last twenty-four hours, of all the happenings, dear, that I wish had been different. Your father, Brace! I--I tried not to deprive you of your father--I knew the cost. It--it wasn't all his fault, dear; it was no real fault of either of us; it was my misfortune, you see--he was asking what--what he had a perfect right to ask--but I was, well, I had nothing to give him that he wanted." Northrup went across the space between him and his mother and laid his hand upon hers. "Mother, I understand. Lately I have felt a new sympathy for Father, and a new contempt. He missed a lot that was worth while, but he did not know. It was damnable; he might have--kept you." "No, Brace. It is the world's thought. I have never been bitter. I only wish he could have been happy--after--after he went away." "And he wasn't?" This had never been discussed between them. "No, dear. He married a woman who seemed to be what he wanted. She wearied of him. He died a lonely, a bitter man. I was saved the bitterness, at least, and I had you." Another pause. Then: "Brace, I know it will seem foolish, but perhaps when you are far away it won't seem so foolish. I want to tell you, dear, that I wish I had never spoken a harsh word to you. Life hurts so at the best--many women are feeling this as I do, dear. Once--you must humour me, Brace--once, after I punished you, I regretted it. I asked your pardon and you said, 'Don't mention it, Mother, I understood.' I want you to say it now, son; it will be such a comfort." "I believe, God hearing me, Mother, that I have understood; have always known that you were the best and dearest of mothers." "Thank you."