And last of all, walking slowly, because her paralysis had affected her whole body, as well as rendering powerless her hands, came the little old white-haired lady. There was no attempt from her to hide the tears. They were mixed up in a confusion of happiness with smiles and with laughter in the most charming way in the world. She just held open her thin, frail arms, and there John buried himself, whispering over and over again in her ear-- "My dearest--my dearest--my dearest----" And who could blame him if Jill were there still in his mind. There comes a time when a man loves his mother because she is a woman, just as the woman he loves. There comes a time when a mother loves her son, because he is a man just as the man she has loved. CHAPTER XXVII THE TRUE MOTHER It was not that evening that she plied her questions, this gentle, white-haired old lady. That first evening of his arrival, there was John’s work to talk of, the success of his last book to discuss, the opinions upon his criticisms to lay down. The old gentleman had decided views upon such matters as these. He talked affirmatively with wise nods of the head, and the bright brown eyes of his wife followed all his gesticulations with silent approval. She nodded her head too. All these things he was saying then, he had said before over and over again to her. Yet they every one of them seemed new when he once more repeated them to John. This critic had not understood what he had been writing about; that critic had hit the matter straight on the head. This one perhaps was a little too profuse in his praise; that one had struck a note of personal animosity which was a disgrace to the paper for which he wrote. "Do you know the man who wrote that, John?" he asked in a burst of righteous anger. John smiled at his father’s enthusiasm. One is so much wiser when one is young--one is so much younger when one is old. "I know him by sight," he said--"we’ve never met. But he always reviews me like that. I suppose I irritate him." His mother felt gently for his hand. Without looking down, he found the withered fingers in his. "How could you irritate him, my darling?" she asked. It seemed an impossibility to her. "Well--there are always some people whom we irritate by being alive, my dearest. I’m not the only one who annoys him. I expect he annoys himself." "Ah, yes!" The old gentleman brought down his fist emphatically upon the arm of his chair--"But he should keep these personal feelings out of his work. And yet--I suppose this kind of thing will always exist. Oh--if it only pleased the Lord that His people should be gentlemen!" So his father talked, giving forth all the enthusiasm of his opinions which for so long had been stored up in the secret of his heart.