up to him and she hid her face on his bosom.
There was a long silence, only broken by the
loud chirruping of the crickets.

"My son," she began at last, still hiding her face,
"thou art a child of guilt."

"That has been no secret to me, mother,"
answered he, gravely and tenderly, "since I was
old enough to know what guilt was."

She quickly raised her head, and a look of
amazement, of joyous surprise, shone through
the tears that veiled her eyes. She could read
nothing but filial love and confidence in those
grave, manly features, and she saw in that
moment that all her doubts had been groundless,
that her long prayerful struggle had been for naught.

"I brought thee into the world nameless," she
whispered, "and thou hast no word of reproach
for me?"

"With God's help, I am strong enough to conquer
a name for myself, mother," was his answer.

It was the very words of her own secret wish,
and upon his lips they sounded like a blessed
assurance, like a miraculous fulfillment of her
motherly prayer.