On reaching home Stephen hurried into the library where he found Virginia waiting for him. “There is nothing the matter with you, is there, Aunt Virginia?” he questioned anxiously. “You're not sick, are you?” “Oh, no, dear—were you alarmed?” Virginia asked. “Well, yes, I was!” he answered. “You see I couldn't make out why you should send for me.” “Sit down, Stephen. I have heard from Dr. Stillman. Sam brought me the letter two hours ago.” Her manner was very gentle, and the boy saw that her eyes were red as with weeping. “Is there anything the matter with my mother?” he asked quickly. “Yes, dear,” said Virginia softly. “She's sick?” “Yes, she has been very ill, Stephen.” He looked up into her face. “You mean—” he began, with strange hesitancy. “She is dead, dear. Your mother is dead.” “Dead?” he repeated. He did not seem to understand. “When did it happen?” he asked at length. He saw that his aunt expected some show of emotion from him, but he was conscious of no emotion beyond surprise. With the years that had intervened since her going away, his mother's letters had grown less and less frequent. She had long since ceased to write him with any regularity, and when her rare letters did reach him, they had been a burden to him rather than a pleasure. He had not known how to answer them. “Would you like to see Dr. Stillman's letter?” Virginia asked. He shook his head. “No; you tell me what he says,” he replied. “It is very brief, it was posted over four months ago. She died in upper Burmah, where she said they were going in the last letter we received from her, you remember, dear?” He nodded slightly. “It seems that her death was very sudden, a fever of some sort. Aren't you very, very sorry, dear?” The inadequacy of his emotion, as she felt it, was a shock to her. “Why, yes, of course I am!” he said. “I wish I remembered her better. You'd like me to show a good deal of feeling, wouldn't you? but how can I, when I don't remember her so very well? You're the only mother I've had, you've been a real mother to me! I suppose you feel it more than I do, and you're surprised at it.” “And you don't remember?” asked Virginia with tender pity; pity for him, and pity for the dead woman. “Oh, yes, I do, in a way. I remember her saying good-bye and going off in the carriage. I watched her drive away from the hall window up-stairs, and you came to me there, and found me crying, you were crying, too; I remember a lot about her before that, long before that; and I remember him—the doctor, I mean. Why, I must have been a good-sized boy when they left!” “Yes,” said Virginia sadly. “I thought it was longer ago than that,” he muttered. There was no use in his trying to show a grief he did not feel; his aunt would have detected the false ring if he had attempted it; yet he wondered, disquietingly, that he was so little stirred.