Slight griefs flow over the surface, with fury perhaps; but
the purest and the sweetest waters are drawn silently.

Winthrop was the first to recover himself, and was kissing his
mother with manly quietness before she could raise her head at
all. When she did, it was to return his kisses, first on one
cheek and then on the other and then on his forehead, parting
the hair from it with both hands for the purpose. It seemed as
if she would have spoken, but she did not, then, not in words.

"My boy," she said at last, "you have too hard measure laid on
you!"

"No, mother -- I don't think it so; -- there is nothing to make
me sorry in that."

"Will has got his wish," she observed presently.

"Don't you approve of it mother?"

"Yes --" she said, but as if there were many a thought before
and behind.

"_Don't_ you approve of it, mother?" Winthrop asked quickly.

"Yes, yes -- I do, -- in itself; but you know there is one wish
before all others in my mind, for him and for you, Winthrop."

He said nothing.