John laid his head down on his mother’s lap. How often he had done it!--as a child, as a lad, as a man--sometimes after those soft reproofs which were like caresses--sometimes in penitence, when he had been rebellious even to her; but never before as now, that her eyes might not read his heart. He did it by instinct, having no time to think; but in the moment that followed thought came, and he saw that he must put a brave face on it, and not betray himself. So he raised his head again, and met her eyes with a smile, believing, man as he was, that he could cheat her with that simulation of gladness which went no further than his lips. “What could I be but happy?” he said; “but not to see you looking so pale, and trembling like this, my pretty mamma. You are too pretty to-day--too pink and too white and too bright-eyed. What do you mean by it? It must be put a stop to, now I have come home.” “What does that mean?” she asked, with tremulous eagerness. He was not happy; he might deceive all the world, she said to herself, but he could not deceive his mother. He was not happy, but he did not mean her to know it, and she would not betray her knowledge. So she only trembled a little more, and smiled pathetically upon him, and kissed his forehead, and shed back the hair from it with her soft nervous hands. “Coming home has such a sound to me. It used to mean the long nice holidays; and once I thought it meant something more; but now----” “Now it means a week or two,” he said; “not much, but still we can make a great deal out of it. And the first thing must be to look after your health, mother. This will never do.” “My health will mend now,” she said, with a smile; and then, afraid to have been supposed to consent to the fact that her health had need of mending--“I mean I never was better, John. I am only a little--nervous--because of the surprise; the first thing is to make you enjoy your holiday, my own boy.” “Yes,” he said, with a curious smile. Enjoy his holiday!--which was the escape of a man beaten from the field on which he had failed in his first encounter with fate. But I will not let her know that, John said to himself. And I must not show him that I see it, was the reflection of his mother. This was how they met again after the great parting which looked like the crisis of their lives. CHAPTER XX.