"Do you never think of your mother?" I asked. "At your age, she might be still living. Can you give up all hope of finding her, without feeling your heart ache?" "If I have done her wrong, in believing that she deserted me," he answered, "the heart-ache is but a poor way of expressing the remorse that I should feel." I ventured nearer still. "Even if you were right," I began--"even it she did desert you--" He interrupted me sternly. "I would not cross the street to see her," he said. "A woman who deserts her child is a monster. Forgive me for speaking so, miss! When I see good mothers and their children it maddens me when I think of what _my_ childhood was." Hearing these words, and watching him attentively while he spoke, I could see that my silence would be a mercy, not a crime. I hastened to speak of other things. "If you decide to leave us," I said, "when shall you go?" His eyes softened instantly. Little by little the color faded out of his face as he answered me. "The General kindly said, when I spoke of leaving my place--" His voice faltered, and he paused to steady it. "My master," he resumed, "said that I need not keep my new employer waiting by staying for the customary month, provided--provided you were willing to dispense with my services." So far, I had succeeded in controlling myself. At that reply I felt my resolution failing me. I saw how he suffered; I saw how manfully he struggled to conceal it. "I am not willing," I said. "I am sorry--very, very sorry to lose you. But I will do anything that is for your good. I can say no more." He rose suddenly, as if to leave the room; mastered himself; stood for a moment silently looking at me--then looked away again, and said his parting words. "If I succeed, Miss Mina, in my new employment--if I get on to higher things--is it--is it presuming too much, to ask if I might, some day--perhaps when you are out riding alone--if I might speak to you--only to ask if you are well and happy--" He could say no more. I saw the tears in his eyes; saw him shaken by the convulsive breathings which break from men in the rare moments when they cry. He forced it back even then. He bowed to me--oh, God, he bowed to me, as if he were only my servant! as if he were too far below me to take my hand, even at that moment! I could have endured anything else; I believe I could still have restrained myself under any other circumstances. It matters little now; my confession must be made, whatever you may think of me. I flew to him like a frenzied creature--I threw my arms round his neck--I said to him, "Oh, Michael, don't you know that I love you?" And then I laid my head on his breast, and held him to me, and said no more. In that moment of silence, the door of the room was opened. I started, and looked up. Lady Claudia was standing on the threshold.