'How you have grown, my darling! You are the image of your father, who was a fine handsome man. How proud I am of my son!' I looked in the glass, without any feeling of vanity. I always took pains with my appearance when I was about to present myself to Jessie, but I had no high opinion of myself, and I was never quite satisfied with the result. 'You do your best to spoil me, mother,' I said, submitting myself to my mother, whose fond fingers were about my neck. 'Go on, about Jessie.' 'You are in her confidence, my dear?' The words were used in the form of a question; and I was immediately conscious that they were the prelude to something of importance, for there was trouble in my mother's face. I also was troubled; a new sorrow had entered into my life, a sorrow with which of course Jessie was connected. All that there was for me of joy and pain in the world was associated with her. I hesitated in my answer. Jessie had pledged me to secrecy with reference to the peculiar nature of her intimacy with the Wests and to her passion for acting, and I would not betray her, not even to my mother. There were confidences between Jessie and me which even she could not share. My mother and I had but few opportunities for conversation during this time, for very little of my time was spent at home. Wherever Jessie went I was bound to follow. It did not matter--except in the sorrow that it caused me--that she gave me less encouragement than formerly; it did not matter that certain undefinable signs from her, which I had hitherto treasured in my heart of hearts as proofs of her love, came rarely and more rarely; the rarer they were the more precious they were. I found excuses for her: in my own inferiority, which hourly and daily impressed itself more painfully upon me; in my being poor; in her being so beautiful and so far above me. I could not see, I dared not think, how it was to end; but I followed her blindly, clung to her blindly. My mother observed my hesitation, and divined the cause. 'Nay, my dear,' she said, in a sad and gentle tone, 'I do not ask you to tell me anything you think you ought to keep to yourself. I have not forfeited _your_ confidence, have I, my darling?' Before I could reply, she placed her hand to her heart, and uttered an exclamation of pain. 'Mother!' I cried. 'It is nothing, dear child,' she said; 'it is only a pain in my side that has come once or twice lately. Put your arms round my neck, my darling; it will pass away directly.' She rested her head upon my shoulder and closed her eyes, holding me tightly to her. 'I am better now, dear child,' she said presently, with a sweet smile. Could I see nothing in her face but physical pain? No, nothing. The old patient look was there, the old tender love was there. What more _could_ I have seen, had I not been blind? 'You ought to get advice, mother. Promise me.' 'I will, my dear; but it is nothing. I am not growing younger, Chris.'