His mother divined what he knew. And her embrace was so close, almost
fierce in its tenderness, her voice so broken, that Lane could only
hide his face over her, and shut his eyes, and shudder in an ecstasy.
God alone had omniscience to tell what his soul needed, but something
of it was embodied in home and mother.

That first acute moment past, he released her, and she clung to his
hands, her face upturned, her eyes full of pain and joy, and woman's
searching power, while she broke into almost incoherent speech; and he
responded in feeling, though he caught little of the content of her
words, and scarcely knew what he was saying.

Then he reeled a little and the kitchen dimmed in his sight. Sinking
into a chair and leaning on the table he fought his weakness. He came
close to fainting. But he held on to his sense, aware of his mother
fluttering over him. Gradually the spell passed.

"Mother--maybe I'm starved," he said, smiling at her.

That practical speech released the strain and inspired his mother to
action. She began to bustle round the kitchen, talking all the while.
Lane watched her and listened, and spoke occasionally. Once he asked
about his sister Lorna, but his mother either did not hear or chose
not to reply. All she said was music to his ears, yet not quite what
his heart longed for. He began to distrust this strange longing. There
was something wrong with his mind. His faculties seemed too sensitive.
Every word his mother uttered was news, surprising, unusual, as if it
emanated from a home-world that had changed. And presently she dropped
into complaint at the hard times and the cost of everything.