A little later Paul and his mother were riding through the now silent streets of Brunford towards his new home. A strange feeling possessed his heart, for while he knew that the woman who sat by his side was his mother, she was a stranger to him. His heart had gone out to her with a great rush of pity and love when she first stepped from the train, but now that they were alone in the darkness it seemed as though his lips were sealed. He had nothing to say to her, and she, wellnigh overcome by her long, weary journey and her new experiences, seemed almost afraid. This was no wonder, for the situation was strange. She had left her boy at the workhouse when he was but an infant in arms. It had almost broken her heart to do this, but she felt that for Paul's sake it would be better for her to go away, better that he should not know of the sadness of his mother's life. And for seventeen years she had kept away from him. It is true she had made inquiries concerning his life at St. Mabyn, but very little more. Paul had grown up with the idea that he was fatherless and motherless, or even if that were not the case he knew nothing about either of them. Then, presently, when the time came for her to tell him the miserable story of the past, she had written asking him to meet her on the lonely moors, and after that she had gone away again in silence. So they were strangers to each other, even although the ties that bound them were so strong that only death could break them. The woman was almost startled when, stepping from the train, she saw the tall, well-dressed fellow rushing towards her. But her heart had claimed her son, and for the moment that was enough. Now, however, that they were alone in the cab, everything seemed in darkness again. She could not recall a feature of her boy's face. He might be an absolute stranger to her. Ere long the cab drew up to the door of a house, and when once ushered into bright and cheerful surroundings everything became changed. For the moment she did not pay any attention to the room, she looked only at him. She put her hands upon his shoulders and scanned his face, feature by feature. Her own face was a study as she did this. She seemed to be looking for something in him. She might be trying to read his heart. Her own eyes almost grew young again as she looked, and her lips were tremulous with a great emotion. "My mother's a beautiful woman," said Paul to himself. "She looks terribly sad under the great sorrow in her life, but when she's happy, as I will make her happy, I shall be proud of her." But for a time neither of them spoke. Each seemed to be trying to realise the situation, trying to understand that they were mother and son. At length the woman spoke. "Thank God," she said. "You are nothing like him! You are my child--black hair, black eyes, dark-skinned, strong, resolute. No, you are nothing like him. You are my laddie, all mine! Kiss me again, my boy!"