“Would you like to learn Hebrew, Ingleby?” he said. Edwin would have liked to learn Hebrew—but not out of school hours. He hesitated. “I thought you might some day wish to take Holy Orders, and I should be glad to teach you.” “I will ask my father, sir,” said Edwin modestly. That was one of the penalties of having interesting eyes. CHAPTER III THE GREEN TREES . . . I THE holidays that followed this term were the most marvellous. From first to last they were bathed in the atmosphere of mellow gold that makes beautiful some evenings of spring, all tender and bird-haunted; and his mother, too, was more wonderful than she had ever been before. On the very first evening when she had come upstairs to tuck him in and to kiss him good-night, she sat on the bedstead leaning over him with both her arms round his neck and whispering secrets to him. Very extraordinary they were; and as she told him, her lips were soft on his cheek. She said that only a month before she had expected to have a baby sister for him—she had always longed so much to have a baby girl—and before the first jealousy that had flamed up into his mind had died away, she told him how the baby had been born dead, and how terribly she had felt the disappointment. He wondered, in the dark, if she were crying. “But now that I’ve got my other baby again,” she said, “I am going to forget all about it. We’ll be ever so happy by ourselves, Eddie, won’t we? In the evenings when father is down at business we will read together. This time we’ll take turns reading, for you’re growing such a big boy. And we’ll go wonderful walks, only not very far, because Dr. Thornhouse says I’m not strong enough yet. I want you to tell me everything—everything you do and think about at school, because you’re all I’ve got now. And you’re part of me, Eddie, really.” At this she clutched him passionately. For a moment Edwin was nearly crying, and then, suddenly, he saw another side of it: her expressed feelings were somehow foreign to him and made him ashamed, as did Mr. Leeming’s watery eyes when he talked about Arthur’s prototype. In the face of this eager emotion he felt himself unresponsive and a little consciously superior and male. He didn’t want to feel superior to his mother—but there it was! Even at breakfast next morning he was shy, and it surprised him when he saw her clear gray-green eyes wholly free from any answering shame. So unconscious was she of his scrutiny that he went on looking at her—really looked at her for the first time in his life. And looking, he began to differentiate this new being, so fragile and eager and girlish, from the old traditional mother whom he had loved and accepted as unquestionably as the miles of blue sky above him. He discovered that she was a woman, remembered Griffin, and blushed. “What a colour you’ve got, boy,” said his father. And it struck him also that she was smaller than she used to be.