But what sort of a flush is it upon her cheeks?
What sort of a look is it in her eyes?
What is this fell shadow that has passed upon her face?
By the time Henry was ready to leave the poor mother had ceased her upbraidings, and had yielded quite to the sense of a sympathy, founded in a loss as great as her own, which his presence gave her.

Re was the only one in all the world from whom she could have accepted sympathy, and in her lonely desolation it was very sweet.

And at the last, when, as he was about to go, her grief burst forth afresh, he put his arm around her and drew her head to his shoulder, and tenderly soothed her, and stroked the thin grey hair, till at last the long, shuddering sobs grew a little calmer.

It was natural that he should be the one to comfort her.

It was his privilege.