As he saw me looking toward the photographs, he said, “I have never told you about them.” Then taking one of them down. “This is a picture of my mother, my own dear mother. She has been my star of destiny. Her teachings, her example, and the remembrance of her, have fashioned and guided my life. The best gift under heaven is a good mother.” I could have cried as he said this. “My mother! my own darling mama! Why had fate or destiny or the brutality of a man deprived me of such a gift?” He had continued while I thought. He described his mother, beautiful, intelligent, refined, accomplished and more particularly, how her soul was wrapt up in her boy, her only child and she a widow. Above all things she wanted him to be pure and true. I then knew why he had talked to me as he did about such things. She had been my mother too, through him. He told of her waiting supper for him to return from school three miles away, to which he went and returned each day on foot. As they sat together she talked with him about his lessons and he told her the incidents of the day, and she inquired what new ideas he had received. So they chatted, and I have no doubt there was laughter too, for he must have been full of roguish fun, and those eyes of hers, one could not mistake, for they were full of mirth. He said the recollection of those cozy table chats always brought the image of his mother fresh before him, for they occurred just before he left home to go into the world never to see her again. He said they had no secrets from each other. They lived with one heart, one soul and one ambition and all of her was centered in him. Could I doubt when I heard this, the cause of his being so pure, honest, candid, frank and free? His mother.