puzzled: he lifted his head, to watch the lights drift
past, far below; and he was much troubled by this mystery. She tried
to gather his legs in her lap--to hold him as she used to do, when he
was a child at her breast; but he was now grown too large for that, and
she suffered, again, the familiar pain: a perception of alienation--of
inevitable loss.

"When?" he asked.

She let his legs fall. "Soon," she sighed. "When you are older; it
won't be long, now. When you are a little wiser; it will be very soon."

"When I am wiser," he pondered, "we must go. What makes me wiser?"

"The wise."

"Are you wise?"

"God help me!" she answered.

He nestled his head on her shoulder--dismissing the mystery with a
quick sigh. "Never mind," he said, to comfort her. "You will not be
alone. I will be with you."

"I wonder!" she mused.

For a moment more she looked out; but she did not see the river--but
saw the wide sea, wind-tossed and dark, where the great multitude of
lights went apart, each upon its mysterious way.

"Mother," he repeated, reproachfully, mystified by her hesitation, "I
will always be with you."

"I wonder!" she mused.

To this doubt--now clear to him beyond hope--there was instant
response: strangely passionate, but in keeping with his nature, as she
knew. For a space he lay rigid on her bosom: then struggled from her
embrace, brutally wrenching her hands apart, flinging off her arms. He
stood swaying: his hands clenched, his slender body aquiver, as before,
his dark eyes blazing reproach. It gave her no alarm, but, rather,
exquisite pleasure, to watch his agony. She caught him by the
shoulders, and bent close, that by the night-light, coming in at the
window, she might look into his eyes: wherein, swiftly, the flare of
reproach turned to hopeless woe. And she was glad that he suffered:
exalted, so that she, too, trembled.

"Oh," he pleaded, "say that I will always be with you!"

She would not: but continued to exult in his woeful apprehension.

"Tell me, mother!" he implored. "Tell me!"

Not yet: for there was no delight to be compared with the proved
knowledge of his love.

"Mother!" he cried.

"You do not love me," she said, to taunt him.

"Oh, don't!" he moaned.

"No, no!" she persisted. "You don't love your mother any more."

He was by this reduced to uttermost despair; and he began to beat his
breast, in the pitiful way he had. Perceiving, then, that she must no
long