At length I made my way back to the house, and although I was its lawful owner, and although every inch of land for a long distance around was mine, I felt that I was a stranger and an interloper. It was cold, too, cold as a vault, and as I passed along, the stone paved hall made a clanking noise which echoed through the silent rooms. I heard the wind howling too, and the sea began to roar, and when this was so there was always a ghostly, weird feeling about our old grey house. As if drawn on by a spell, I made my way to the library, and on arriving there found my mother sitting alone. "I have been waiting for you, Roger," said my mother quietly. "I felt there were some things about which I ought to speak to-night, and so would not retire until I saw you." "And what about the girls, mother?" I said. "Where are they, and where is Wilfred?" "They are all gone to bed. It has been a terrible day for them all, especially for Ruth, and so I sent them off. Besides, we must speak alone to-night." "Speak alone, mother? I thought everything was settled. I am weary, and desire no business to-night. I have had much to do for three days, and have more to do to-morrow. I must rest." "There is such a thing as duty as well as pleasure," said my mother severely. "You are now Trewinion's lord, and surely it is your duty to care about the happiness of others. Besides, a mother should ever be able to command her son?" "Just so, mother," I said wearily. "Tell me what you wish, and I will do my best to obey you." "Roger," she said in an altered tone, "you have had the reputation of being kind-hearted and generous. I know you have often thought me hard upon you; but if I have been so, it was only from the desire to make you gentle as well as generous." I looked upon her in surprise, and in spite of my sorrow my heart bounded with hope. Perhaps my father's death had destroyed all hard feelings, and now I should know the meaning of a mother's love. "Mother," I said, "I have been rough and harsh. I'll try to be a better son, and perhaps we may be happy in the future." A sharp spasm, as if of pain, crossed her face, but she spoke naturally. "It may be," she went on, "that what I shall say may hurt you, but I only want to be a kind, loving mother." My heart warmed more than ever. "I am sure that is your desire, mother," I said. She was silent for a minute, and again I saw the look of of pain which crossed her face. "Roger," she burst out, "what I have to say nearly kills me," and she burst into a flood of tears. I went to her side and soothed her. "Don't grieve, mother," I said, "and don't say anything that will give you pain." "No, no, it's not that," she said, and then cried out, "I can't tell him, I can't."