now? As she held him in her arms, hiding
her face upon his breast, she struggled hard to speak the word. Then
in the midst of that struggle, while there was still something like a
 within her that it might be done, she raised her head and looked
up into his face. It was not a face pleasant to look at, as was that
of Peregrine Orme. It was hard in its outlines, and perhaps too manly
for his age. But she was his mother, and she loved it well. She
looked up at it, and raising her hands she stroked his cheeks. She
then kissed him again and again, with warm, clinging kisses. She
clung to him, holding him close to her, while the sobs which she had
so long repressed came forth from her with a violence that terrified
him. Then again she looked up into his face with one long wishful
gaze; and after that she sank upon the sofa and hid her face within
her hands. She had made the struggle, but it had been of no avail.
She could not tell him that tale with her own voice.

"Mother," he said, "what does this mean? I cannot understand such
 as this." But for a while she was quite unable to answer