hand into his and said softly, while her eyes shone like stars--

'Some day, Jack, perhaps! God knows.' But Jack only looked steadily at
her, smiling a little and patting her hand.

'You'd shine there, mother,' said Graeme, smiling upon her; 'you'd
better come with me.' She started, and said faintly--

'With you?' It was the first hint he had given of his purpose. 'You are
going back?'

'What! as a missionary?' said Jack.

'Not to preach, Jack; I'm not orthodox enough,' looking at his father
and shaking his head; 'but to build railroads and lend a hand to some
poor chap, if I can.'

'Could you not find work nearer home, my boy?' asked the father; 'there
is plenty of both kinds near us here, surely.'

'Lots of work, but not mine, I fear,' answered Graeme, keeping his eyes
away from his mother's face. 'A man must do his own work.'

His voice was quiet and resolute, and glancing at the beautiful face at
the end of the table, I saw in the pale lips and yearning eyes that the
mother was offering up her firstborn, that ancient sacrifice. But not
all the agony of sacrifice could wring from her entreaty or complaint
in the hearing of her sons. That was for other ears and for the silent
hours of the night. And next morning when she came down to meet us her
face was wan and weary, but it wore the peace of victory and a glory not
of earth. Her greeting was full of dignity, sweet and gentle; but when
she came to Graeme she lingered over him and kissed him twice. And that
was all that any of us ever saw of that sore fight.

At the end of the week I took leave of them, and last of all of the
mother.

She hesitated just a moment, then suddenly put her hands upon my
shoulders and kissed me, saying softly, 'You are his friend; you will
sometimes come to me?'

'Gladly, if I may,' I hastened to answer, for the sweet, brave face was
too much to bear; and, till she left us for that world of which she was
a part, I kept my word, to my own great and lasting good. When Graeme
met me in the city at the end of the summer, he brought me her love, and
then burst forth--

'Connor, do you know, I have just discovered my mother! I have never
known her till this summer.'

'More fool you,' I answered, for often had I, who had never known a
mother, envied him his.

'Yes, that is true,' he answered slowly; 'but you cannot see until you
have eyes.'

Before he set out again for the west I gave him a supper, asking the men
who had been w