That his mother had been stirred even in a greater degree over what St.George had said to her than she had been by his father's treatment of him was evident in the trembling movement of the soft hands caressing his hair and in the way her breath came and went.

Under her soothing touch his thoughts went back to the events of the morning:--his uncle's defiant tones as he denounced his father; his soft answer to his mother; her pleading words in reply, and then the reverent kiss.
Suddenly, clear as the tones of a far-off convent bell sifting down from some cloud-swept crag, there stole into his mind a memory of his childhood--a legend of long ago, vague and intangible--one he could not put into words--one Alec had once hinted at.

He held his breath trying to gather up the loose ends--to make a connected whole; to fit the parts together.

Then, as one blows out a candle, leaving total darkness, he banished it all from his mind.
"Mother dear!--mother dear!" he cried tenderly, and wound his arms the closer about her neck.
She gathered him up as she had done in the old days when he was a child at her breast; all the intervening years seemed blotted out.

He was her baby boy once more--her constant companion and unending comfort: the one and only thing in her whole life that understood her.
Soon the warmth and strength of the full man began to reach her heart.
She drew him still closer, this strong son who loved her, and in the embrace there grew a new and strange tenderness--one born of confidence.
It was this arm which must defend her now; this head and heart which must guide her.