he said softly, standing by
the bedside, "Dearest, I am here."

"At last," came a faint murmur from under the double veil.

Max thought, with a sharp stab of pain, that he would not have
recognized the voice if he had not known that it was his mother's. It
sounded like the voice of a little, frail, very old woman; whereas Rose
Doran had been a creature of glorious physique, looking and feeling at
least fifteen years younger than her age.

"I started the minute I had the telegram," Max said, wanting to make
sure that she realized his love, his frantic haste to reach her. "It has
seemed a hundred years! Darling, if I could bear this for you. If----"

"Please, don't," the little whining voice under the veil fretfully cut
him short. "I can't see very well. Has the doctor gone out?"

"Yes, dearest. We're alone."

"I'm glad. There isn't much time, and I've got a story to tell you. I
ought to call it a confession."

That swept Max's forced calmness away. "A confession from you to me!" he
cried out, horrified. "Never! Darling One, whatever it is I don't want
to hear it--I don't need to hear it, I know---- Rest. Be at peace. Just
let us love each other."

"You don't know what you are talking about." The veiled voice grew
shrill. "You only do harm trying to stop me. You'll kill me if you do."

"Forgive me, dear." Max controlled himself again. "I'll not say another
word. I----"

"Then don't--don't! I want to go on--to the end. I'd rather you sat
down. I can see you standing there. It's like a black shadow between me
and the light, accusing--no, don't speak! It needn't accuse. You
wouldn't have had the life you've had, if--but I mustn't begin like
that. Where are you now? Are you near enough to hear all I say? I can't
raise my voice."

"I'm sitting down, close by the bed. I can hear the least whisper," Max
assured her. He sat with his head bowed, his hands gripping the arms of
the chair. This seemed unbearable, to spend the last minutes of her life
hearing some confession! It was not right, from a mother to a son. But
he must yield.

"I don't know how long I can stand it--the pain, I mean," she moaned.
"So I can't try and break things gently to you, for fear--I have to stop
in the midst. I'm not your mother, Max, and Jack wasn't your father. But
he thought he was. He never knew. And he loved you. I didn't. I never
could. You see--I _did_ know. You must have wondered sometimes. I saw
you wondered; I suppose you never