talked about among them--yet none knew just how it all was, except our
family, and we would betray no secrets that she wished kept. I hardly
recognized myself when at last we arrived at our journey's end, and I
was in Clara's home. Never before had I seen myself reflected in a long
pier-glass, and never on earth did I seem so homely; my hands were too
large and awkward, and I sat so uncomfortably on the luxurious chairs.

Clara noticed my discomfort and kept me changing from one position to
another, until I was so vexed with myself I insisted on sitting in a
corner and persuaded Clara that my head ached. The compassionate soul
believed it and was bathing my temples, when a light step aroused us
both, and a moment later she was in the arms of her beloved son, whom
she proudly introduced to me.

I was surprised at his appearance--I thought him a boy, and so he was in
years, but if Clara had not told me his age, I should have guessed him
to be twenty-five. He had large dark eyes, a glorious head, perfect in
its shape, an intellectual forehead, and the most finely chiselled
mouth, most expressive of all his feelings; his lips parted in such
loving admiration of his mother and closed so lovingly upon her own.
After a profound bow to myself and a hearty grasp of the hand, he drew
her to the crimson cushions of a tête-à-tête standing near, and passing
his arm around her held her closely to him, as if afraid he would lose
her. I envied her, and any heart might well envy the passionate devotion
of a son like Louis Robert Desmonde.

I wanted to leave them to themselves, but as I could not do this, I
covered my head, which really ached now, with my hands, and tried hard
not to listen to their audible conversation, but from that time I
appreciated what was meant by the manly love of this son, differing so