only said: "My son, I feared that I should never see you again." Then she noticed the thinness of his clothing and its dampness. "Why, you are cold and wet," she added.
"I do not feel so now, mother," he replied.
She smiled, and her smile was that of a young girl. As she drew him toward the fire in a dusky room it seemed to him that some one else went out.
"I heard your footsteps on the portico," she said.
"And you knew that it was me, mother," he interrupted, as he reached down and patted her softly on the cheek.
He could not remember the time when he did not have a protecting feeling in the presence of his mother—he was so tall and large, and she so small. She scarcely reached to the top of his shoulder, and even now, at the age of forty-five, her cheeks had the delicate bloom and freshness of a young girl's.
"Sit by the fire here," she said, as she pushed him into an armchair that she pulled directly in front of the grate.
"No, you must not do that," she added, taking the poker from his hand. "Don't you know that it is a delight for me to wait upon you, my son come from the war!"
Then she prodded the coals until they glowed a deep red and the room was suffused with generous warmth.
"What is this bundle that you have?" she asked, taking it from him.
"A new uniform, mother, that I have just bought, and in which I hope to do you credit."
She flitted about the room attending to his wants, bringing him a hot drink, and she would listen to no account of himself until she was sure that he was comfortable. He followed her with his eyes, noting how little she had changed in the three years that had seemed so long.
She was a Northern woman, of a Quaker family in Philadelphia, whom his father had married very young and brought to live on a great place in Virginia. Prescott always believed she had never appreciated the fact that she was entering a new social world when she left Philadelphia; and there, on the estate of her husband, a just and generous man, she saw slavery under its most favourable conditions. It must have been on one of their visits to the Richmond house, perhaps at the slave market itself, that she beheld the other side; but this was a subject of which she would never speak to her son Robert. In fact, she was silent about it to all people, and he only knew that she was not wholly like the Southern women about him. When the war came she did not seek to persuade her son to either side, but when he made his choice he was always sure that he caused her pain, though she never said a word.
"Do you wear such thin clothing as this out there in those cold forests?" she asked, fingering his coat.
"Mother," he replied with a smile, "this is the style now; the shops recommend it, and you know we've all heard that a man had better be dead than out of the style."
"And you have become a great soldier?" she said, looking at him fondly.
He laughed, knowing that in any event he would seem great to her.
"Not great, mother," he replied; "but I know that I have the confidence of General Lee, on whose staff I serve."
"A good man and a great one," she said, clasping her hands thoughtfully. "It is a pity–"
She stopped, and her son asked:
"What is a pity, mother?"
She did not answer, but he knew. It was said by many that Lee hesitated long before he went with his State.
"Now," she said, "you must eat," and she brought him bread and meat and coffee, serving them from a little table that she herself placed by his side.
"How happens it, mother," he asked, "that this food is still warm? It must have been hours since you had breakfast."
A deep tint of red as of a blush suffused her cheeks, and she answered in a hesitating voice:
"Since there was a pause in the war, I knew that sooner or later you would come, and I remember how hungry you used to be as a growing boy."
"And through all these days you have kept something hot on the fire for me, ready at a moment's notice!"
She looked at him and there was a faint suspicion of tears in her eyes.
"Yes, yes, Robert," she replied. "Now don't scold me."
He had no intention of scolding her, but his thought was: "Has any other man a mother like mine?" Then he corrected himself; he knew that there must be myriads of others.
He said nothing in reply, merely smiling at her, and permitted her to do as she would. She went about the room with light, easy step, intent on her little services.
She opened the window shutters and the rich sunlight came streaming in, throwing a golden glow across the brown face of him who had left her a boy and come back a man. She sighed a little as she noticed how great was the change, but she hid the sigh from her son.
"Mother," he asked presently, "was there not some one else in this room when I came in? The light was faint, but I thought I saw a shadowy figure disappear."
"Yes," she answered; "that was Helen Harley. She was with me when you came. She may have known your footstep, too, and if not, she guessed it from my face, so she went out at once. She did not wish to be a mere curious onlooker when a mother was greeting her son, come home after three years in the war."
"She must be a woman now."
"She is a woman full grown in all respects. Women have grown old fast in the last three years. She is nearly a head taller than I."
"You have been comfortable here, mother?" he asked.
"As much so as one can be in such times," she replied. "I do not lack for money, and whatever deprivations I endure are those of the common lot—and this community of ill makes them amusing rather than serious."
She rose and walked to a door leading into the garden.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I shall return in a few moments."
When she came back she brought with her a tall young woman with eyes of dark blue and hair of brown shot with gold wherever the firelight fell upon it. This girl showed a sinuous grace when she walked and she seemed to Prescott singularly self-contained.
He sprang to his feet at once and took her hand in the usual Southern fashion, making a compliment upon her appearance, also in the usual Southern fashion. Then he realized that she had ceased to be a little girl in all other respects as well as in the physical.
"I have heard that gallantry in the face of the ladies as well as of the foe is part of a soldier's trade, Robert," she replied.
"And you do not know which requires the greater daring."
"But I know which your General ought to value the more."
After this she was serious. Neither of the younger people spoke much, but left the thread of the talk to Mrs. Prescott, who had a great deal to say. The elder woman, for all her gentleness and apparent timidity, had a bold spirit that stood in no awe of the high and mighty. She was full of curiosity about the war and plied her son with questions.
"We in Richmond know little that is definite of its progress," she said. "The Government announces victories and no defeats. But tell me, Robert, is it true, as I hear, that in the knapsacks of the slain Southern soldiers they find playing-cards, and in those of the North, Bibles?"
"If the Northern soldiers have Bibles, they do not use them," said Helen.
"And if the Southern soldiers have playing-cards, they do use them," said Mrs. Prescott.
Robert laughed.
"I daresay that both sides use their cards too much and their Bibles too little," he said.
"Do not be alarmed, Robert," said his mother; "such encounters between Helen and myself are of a daily occurrence."
"And have not yet resulted in bloodshed," added Miss Harley.
Prescott watched the girl while his mother talked, and he seemed to detect in her a certain aloofness as far as he was concerned, although he