I have said that he is changed, but I find it difficult to explain in what way he is different from what he was. It is not that his hair has grown quite white during the months that we have been parted, it is not that his form is bowed, or that his features are more deeply-lined; the same shrewd thoughtful expression is there, but in some undefinable way it is softened, and although the old look of self-reliance is in his eyes, it is less hard than it was. As I silently note these changes, I am reminded of a passage I read a few days before this meeting, in which a man is said to have had in his face an expression which might have been brought there by the touch of angel fingers on his eyelids while he slept. 'I received your message yesterday, my dear boy,' he says presently. 'Your mother brought it straight to me. It gladdened my heart inexpressibly.' Then I know that my mother must have been in the habit of visiting him for some time; it does not surprise me to learn this; every day of her life brings me fresh proofs of her goodness. 'How long ago was it, uncle,' I ask, 'since mother discovered where you were living?' 'Quite a month, my dear boy,' he replies, and adds quickly, 'it was my wish that she should say nothing to you until I gave her permission.' I smile softly at this defence of her. 'She can do nothing wrong,' I say. 'I think I know the spirit that lives in the hearts of angels.' My mother, who is preparing tea for us, peeps in here. 'Do you forgive me, my dear?' she says. 'You never thought your mother would deceive you, I daresay.' 'I shall have to consider very seriously,' I say, kissing her, 'before I can pronounce an opinion on your conduct. There are some things that take a long time in learning.' She stands between us, embracing us, glancing with tearful eyes from one to the other. 'But I must make haste, and get tea ready,' she cries, running away from us; 'there! the kettle's boiling over.' 'Which is the better kind of wisdom, uncle,' I say; 'that which comes from the head or the heart?' He answers: 'That which touches us most deeply, which makes us kinder, more tender and tolerant, less harsh and dogmatic, more charitable and merciful, must be the better kind of teaching. All this springs from the heart. You said to your mother just now that some things take a long time in learning. I have been all my life learning a lesson, and have but now, when I am near my grave, mastered it. In plays, in poems, in stories, in songs, those words and sentiments which appeal to the heart are invariably most effective. You see, my dear boy, my views are changed.' After this he asks me about myself, and I tell him what has passed, and he listens with pleasure and patience, as though he had not already heard it all from my mother's lips--but I do not think of this at the time.