Anstruther tells me my boy could not have
lived but for you and your care. I shall ever remember this--ever feel
grateful."
A pang, the full meaning of which she then did not in the least
understand, shot through Christian's heart. "You should not feel
grateful to his _mother._"
"Do you mean, really, that you love him like--like a mother?"
"Of course I do."
Dr. Grey said nothing more, but his wife felt him put his arm round her.
She leaned her head against him and, though she still wept--for the
tears, once unsealed, seemed painfully quick to rise--still she was
contented and at rest. Worn and weary a little, now the suspense was
over the reaction came, but very peaceful. Unconsciously there ran
through her mind one of the foolish bits of poetry she had been fond of
when a girl:
_"In the unruffled shelter of thy love,
My bark leaped homeward from a stormy sea,
And furled its sails, and, like a nested dove--"_
"Mother!" called out Arthur's feeble, fretful voice, and in a minute the
poetry had all gone out of her head, and she was by her boy's side,
feeding him, jesting with him, and planning how the first day of his
convalescence should be celebrated by a grand festival, inviting the two
others to tea in his room.
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