There was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for it was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the first the nurse would call if anything was the matter.

She awoke as one who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to betray the misery on her son's face.
"Roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent.
"Were you calling, mother ?" he asked.

"I was passing by, and I came in here to see if you wanted anything." "I did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter?
Is Felicita ill?
or the babies?
Your voice is sad, Roland." "No, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful voice, "Felicita is asleep, I hope, and the babies are all right.

But I have been late at bank-work; and I turned in just to have a look at you, mother, before I go to bed." "That's my good son," she said, smiling, and taking his hand between her own in a fond clasp.
"Am I a good son ?" he asked.
His mother's face was a fair, sweet face still, the soft brown hair scarcely touched with white, and with clear, dark gray eyes gazing up frankly into his own.

They were eyes like these, with their truthful light shining through them, inherited from her, which in himself had won the unquestioning trust and confidence of those who were brought into contact with him.