Yet their relationship was more like that of two friends than of mother and son. She knew all there was to know of his thoughts, and of his doubts, concerning many of the great things which trouble and disturb most thinking modern men. Of the outward life he led in the Mexican stretch of country of which he had become the administrator and practical ruler, she also knew a great deal, indeed surprisingly much, for he wrote by each mail long, full letters; and the romance of his great business had become an ever continuous source of interest, of amusement, and of pride to the mother who now only lived for him. But of those secret things which had moved his heart, warred with his passions, perchance seared his conscience, he had never told her anything. Only once had the impenetrable mist of reserve been lightened, as it were pierced for a moment--and that was now a long time ago, on his second visit home five years before. He had then come to England meaning to stay a month. But at the end of ten days he had received a telegram--what he called, in the American fashion, a cable--and within an hour he had gone, saying as he kissed his mother good-bye, "A friend of mine--a woman who has been ill a long time--is now dying. I must go, even if I'm not in time to see her alive." In the letters which had followed his return to Mexico, there had been no word more--nothing even implying sorrow, or a sense of loss--only a graver note, of which the mother might have remained unaware but for that clue he had left to sink deep in her mother-heart. * * * * * He was now close to her, looking down out of his dark, compelling eyes--eyes which were so like her own, save that now hers shone with a softer light. "Pavely stayed a long time," he said abruptly. "Are you tired? D'you want to go in yet, mother?" She shook her head. "I'd rather stay out here till it's time to dress." As she spoke she lifted her face to his, and he told himself what a beautiful, and noble face it was, though each delicate, aquiline feature had thickened, and the broad low forehead was now partially concealed by thick bands of whitening hair. It was a lined, even a ravaged face--the face of a woman who had lived, had loved, had suffered. But of that Oliver was only dimly conscious, for his mother's nature if impetuous and passionate was almost as reserved and secretive as was his own. It may be doubted, even, if Oliver Tropenell knew how much his mother loved him, for it may be doubted if any son ever knows how much his mother--even if she appear placid or careless--loves him. One thing Oliver did know, or confidently believed he knew, and that was that his mother loved him more than she had ever loved anything in the world. There he was quite content to leave it. "Pavely wants me to become trustee to Laura's marriage settlement, in succession to old Mr. Blackmore."