"I suppose so. I have never had what I could call a home and I have moved about a great deal. Men of my acquaintance," he continued, musingly, "have been ambitious in every line; I have watched them in wonder. Most of them sacrifice what would have been my greatest pleasure to possess--mother and sister and home. I cannot understand that phase of life; I suppose I never will." "Then you have never known a mother?" "Never." There was something in his voice that touched her deeply. "To miss a mother's affection," she said, with a holy light in her brown eyes, "is to miss the greatest gift heaven can bestow here. I suppose a wife somehow takes a mother's place, finally, with every man, but she cannot fill it. No woman that ever lived can fill my mother's place." Loyal little Mary! He fancied that as she thought upon her own remark her sensitive lips curved slightly. His mind reverted to the sinister face that they had left in the parlor. "Your mother!" he exclaimed, fervently; "would to heaven I had such a mother!" He paused, overcome with emotion. She looked upon him with swimming eyes. "You must come often, then," she said, softly, "and be much with us. I will share her with you. Poor mamma! I am afraid--I am afraid for her!" She covered her face with her hands suddenly and bowed her head. "Is she ill, so ill as all that?" he asked, greatly concerned. "Oh, no! That is, her eyesight is failing; she does not realize it, but Dr. Campbell has warned us to be careful." "What is the trouble?" He was now deeply distressed. "Glaucoma. The little nerve that leads from the cornea to the brain finally dies away; there is no connection, and then----" she could not conclude the sentence. Edward had never before been brought within the influence of such a circle. Her words thrilled him beyond expression. He waited a little while and said: "I cannot tell you how much my short experience here has been to me. The little touch of motherly interest, of home, has brought me more genuine pleasure than I thought the world held for me. You said just now that you would share the dear little mamma with me. I accept the generous offer. And now you must share the care of the little mamma with me. Do not be offended, but I know that the war has upset your revenues here in the south, and that the new order of business has not reached a paying basis. By no act of mine I am independent; I have few responsibilities. Why may not I, why may not you and I take the little mamma to Paris and let the best skill in the world be invoked to save her from sorrow?" He, too, would not, after her failure, say "blindness." She looked at him through tears that threatened to get beyond control, afraid to trust her voice. "You have not answered me," he said, gently. She shook her head.