Had she been right in concealing from him that
which he might justly claim to know? What
had been her motive in keeping him ignorant of
his origin and of the land of his birth? She
had wished him to grow to the strength of man-
hood, unconscious of guilt, so that he might
bear his head upright, and look the world
fearlessly in the face. And still, had there not in
all this been a lurking thought of herself, a fear
of losing his love, a desire to stand pure and
perfect in his eye? She hardly dared to answer
these questions, for, alas, she knew not that even
our purest motives are but poorly able to bear a
searching scrutiny. She began to suspect that
her whole course with her son had been wrong
from the very beginning. Why had she not
told him the stern truth, even if he should
despise her for it, even if she should have to stand
a blushing culprit in his presence? Often, when
she heard his footsteps in the hall, as he returned
from the work of the day, she would man herself
up and the words hovered upon her lips:
"Son, thou art a bastard born, a child of guilt,
and thy mother is an outcast upon the earth."
But when she met those calm blue eyes of his,
saw the unsuspecting frankness of his manner
and the hopefulness with which he looked to
the future, her womanly heart shrank from its
duty, and she hastened out of the room, threw
herself on her bed, and wept. Fiercely she