It is always the first step that forms the difficulty, and even yet Paul could not resolve on precipitating himself into those cold waters he so dreaded. Even did he take the plunge, how could he introduce the subject? The drive passed, therefore, in constrained silence. It was not until they were seated in the cool, pleasant room, called by Mrs. Desfrayne her own special retreat, that Paul could break the ice. Mrs. Desfrayne gazed with wonderment at the handsome face of her boy, as he sat on a low chair before her, his eyes cast down, his hands nervously playing with the silken fringe on her dress, so unlike what she had ever known him before. “Paul,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “you look like a criminal. What is the matter with you?” The tone was mellow and tender, and yet with a tinge of gentle gaiety. Paul raised his eyes. “Like a criminal?” he repeated slowly. “I look like what I am. Oh! my mother--my mother!” He slipped from the low chair, on his knees, and bowed his face on his mother’s hands. She felt hot tears wet her fingers, and a great terror seized her heart, for she adored her boy. “Paul,” she whispered, “tell me what has happened!” CHAPTER XIII. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S CONFESSION. Paul Desfrayne’s weakness did not last many minutes. Rising to his feet, he strode backward and forward half a dozen times; then, pausing, he leaned his folded arms on the back of the low, carved chair into which he had at first thrown himself. “You alarm me, Paul. I beseech you, tell me the worst at once,” implored his mother. “You may see with what an effort I try to approach the secret which, for three long years, has been my curse by day and by night,” answered Paul mournfully. Mrs. Desfrayne threw out her hands with an involuntary gesture of fear and amazement. “For three years!” she repeated, as if incredulous. “What do you imagine that secret to have been?” he demanded, gazing steadfastly at her. “Good heavens! how can I imagine when, until this moment, I did not know you had any concealment from me at all?” exclaimed Mrs. Desfrayne. Her accent was indicative half of despair, half of keen reproach. “As you are aware, I have just received a most singular offer.” “Your troubles, then, have some reference to Lois Turquand?” “In a measure, yes. You would wish me, if I understood you aright, to take advantage, as far as in me lay, of this offer?” Mrs. Desfrayne hesitated, then cried, with vehemence: “Why do you not speak plainly at once, instead of harassing me by these hints and half-confidences?” “Because I am afraid of the effect upon you; because I am afraid you may never be able to forgive me.” “For what offense?” “For deceit and ingratitude toward the best and kindest of mothers.” “It is impossible to comprehend you. I must only wait for some key to your singular self-reproaches,” said Mrs. Desfrayne, with a profound sigh.