"I beg your pardon, John," said she, "for intruding in your business hours, but I was down-town to-day, and I thought I would just drop in to see you." She gazed at him keenly, noting with a mother's eye the worn look on his face.

"I don't think you've been looking well lately, John," said she.

"Does your arm still trouble you?"

"Why, of course not, it's all well. Why, I'm feeling fine, fine! You and I ought to be feeling well these days, for you know we have just finished paying for our house, and everything is looking perfectly splendid all around. You didn't know I had a raise in my salary last month, did you?" He turned his back, as he said this last, that his mother might not discover on his face so palpable a falsehood.

"Is that so, John?" she said. "Why, I'm so glad!" A faint spot of color came into the faded cheeks, and the old eyes brightened. "Well, I'm sure you deserved it. They couldn't pay you more than you're worth."

"No," said Eddring, grimly, "they are not apt to." His mother caught no hidden meaning, but went on.

"You're a good business man, John, I know," said she, "and I know you have always been a gentleman in your work." Here spoke the old South, its pride visible in the lift of the white crowned head, and the flash of an eye not yet dimmed in spite of the gentleness of the pale, thin face.

Eddring gulped a bit. "Well, you know, in business," said he, "a fellow pretty near has to choose--"

"And you have always chosen to be a gentleman."

"As near as I could, mother," said he, gravely. "I have just done the best I could. Now, as I was saying, I am feeling mighty fine to-day.

Everything coming out so well--the truth is--"

"John," said his mother, sharply, "why do you say 'the fact is,' and 'the truth is'? You don't usually do that."

He did not answer, and there went on the subtle self-communings of the mother-brain, exceedingly difficult to lead astray. For the time she did not voice her thought, but approaching him, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead.

"Pretty gray, isn't it, mother?" said he, smiling at her.

"Nonsense! Is that what you were thinking about?"

"Well, you see, I'm getting--"

"No, you're not! You don't look a day over twenty-five."

"That's right. That's right," said he, blithely. "I am twenty-five, exactly twenty-five; and they're raising my salary right along.

What'll it be when I'm fifty?"

"You ought to have a new necktie, John," said his mother, smoothing down the lapel of his coat. "A rising man, like you, my son, must always remember little things."

"That's right," said he. "That's right. You know I'm so careless. The truth is--"

"There you go again, John! Now why are you so particular to tell me that what you are saying to me is the truth? Just as if you ever in your life said anything which wasn't true."

He did not answer, but hurriedly turned away, that the keen eyes might not examine his face too closely. She followed him.

"John," said she, sharply, "tell me, what's the trouble? Tell me the truth."

"I have," said he. The words choked him, and she knew it. He evaded once more the attack of her eyes, but again she followed him, her face now very pale, her lips trembling.

"Boy," said she, "tell me, what is it? Is there a woman? Is there anybody?"

"n.o.body in all the world but you," he declared bravely. It was of no avail, and he knew it, as the keen eyes finally found his own.

"John!" said his mother, "you have _not_ been telling me the truth."

"Well, I know it," said he, calmly, and with far greater happiness.

"Of _course_ I haven't. Who said I was? O, Lord! you can't fool a woman any way on earth. Now here--"

"Who is this girl?" asked his mother, with a certain sternness as she gazed at him directly; "for of course I knew very well what was the matter. I suppose I shall have to face this some day, though it has been so long--"

Eddring looked her straight in the face in return, and this time without flinching.

"The dearest girl in the world," said he. "But I reckon she's not for me."

"Who is she? Where is she? Where did you meet her? Have you a picture?"

"I don't need one."

"What's her name--her family? Of course--"

"She hasn't any family. I don't know where she came from."

"_John!_"

"Well, it's true."

"But you could not expect--"

"I expect nothing!" cried he, again striking his clenched hand upon the table. "Here is my world. Oh, well, you know now if I ever swear, and why."

Her lip trembled. "I never knew you did," said she. "John, tell me, have you ever spoken to her?"

"Good G.o.d! no, never. How could I? What have I to offer a girl like her? Who am I? What am I?"

She caught his head in her arms and drew his face down to her bosom.

"There, there," said she. "There, there, now."

But presently he broke from her, and swung out into the room, erect and active once more, a sudden triumph in his carriage, a brighter glance in the eye for a time grown dull.

"Pshaw! Here," said he, "here I am, pitying myself! That isn't a good thing for a man to do. A man oughtn't to complain. He ought to take his medicine."

"Look," he cried, coming to her again, "maybe the world is just loving me, that's all, and doesn't know. Maybe it's the same as it was when I scratched my face on your breast-pin when I was a baby, when your arms were around my neck. You did not mean it. Maybe life does not mean it. Maybe it's just _loving_ us all the time.

"Come, now, you shall see this girl who is of no family. Come with me. She is here, right in town, this very day."

"Where is she, John?"

"Why, Colonel Blount told me that she and her mother were over at the hotel. Could we call? Wouldn't it be all right if we did?"

"If the ladies are strangers in town," said Mrs. Eddring, slowly, "and if they are friends of yours, then I will call on them with you."

"Come!" said he, feverishly. "Come!"--then suddenly: "Tell me, mammy, does my hair look so awfully gray?"