u in advance of his skill with
his weapons--you would have known that to be natural with him.

You would not soon have found his like, even in that land of tall
hunting men. He was a grand young being as he stood there, straight
and clean-limbed; hard-bitten of muscle, albeit so young; powerful and
graceful in his stride. The beauty of youth was his, and of a strong
heredity--that you might have seen.

The years of youth were his, yes; but the lightness of youth did not
rest on his brow. While he was not yet eighteen, the gravity of
manhood was his.

He did not smile now, as he saw his mother sitting there absorbed,
gazing out for his return, and not seeing him now that he had
returned. Instead, he stepped forward, and quietly laid a hand upon
her shoulder, not with any attempt to surprise or startle her, but as
if he knew that she would accept it as the announcement of his
presence.

He was right. The strong figure in the chair did not start away. No
exclamation came from the straight mouth of the face now turned
toward him. Evidently the nerves of these two were not of the sort
readily stampeded.

The young man's mother at first did not speak to him. She only reached
up her own hand to take that which lay upon her shoulder. They
remained thus for a moment, until at last the youth stepped back to
lean his rifle against the wall.

"I am late, mother," said he at length, as he turned and, seating
himself at her feet, threw his arm across her lap--himself but boy
again now, and not the hunter and the man.

She stroked his dark hair, not foolishly fond, but with a sort of
stern maternal care, smoothing it back in place where it belonged,
straightening out the riot it had assumed. It made a mane above his
forehead and reached down his neck to his shoulders, so heavy that
where its dark mass was lifted it showed the skin of his neck white
beneath.

"You are late, yes."

"And you waited--so long?"

"I am always waiting for you, Merne," said she. She used the
Elizabethan vowel, as one should pronounce "bird," with no sound of
"u"--"Mairne," the name sounded as she spoke it. And her voice was
full and rich and strong, as was her son's; musically strong.

"I am always waiting for you, Merne," said she. "But I long ago
learned not to expect anything else of you." She spoke with not the
least reproach in her tone. "No, I only knew that you would come back
in time, because you told me that you would."

"And you di