had died away. Two of the topmost billets of wood rolled gently over and emitted a soft muttering. "You would, eh?" said the young man, with a sweet, subtle smile. "You would spend your last breath for the good of your race. You have left some saplings behind you in the forest. You hope that they will be happy, and should I, a human being, be less disinterested than you?" "Vesper," said a sudden voice, from the doorway, "are you talking to yourself?" The young man deliberately turned his head. The better to observe the action of the sticks of wood, and to catch their last dying murmurs, he had leaned forward, and sat with his hands on his knees. Now he got up, drew a chair to the fire for his mother, then sank back into his own. [Pg 14] [Pg 14] "I do not like to hear you talking to yourself," she went on, in a querulous, birdlike voice, "it seems like the habit of an old man or a crazy person." "One likes sometimes to have a little confidential conversation, my mother." "You always were secretive and unlike other people," she said, in acute maternal satisfaction and appreciation. "Of all the boys on the hill there was none as clever as you in keeping his own counsel." "So you think, but remember that I happened to be your son," he said, protestingly. "Others have remarked it. Even your teachers said they could never make you out," and her caressing glance swept tenderly over his dark curly head, his pallid face, and slender figure. His satirical yet affectionate eyes met hers, then he looked at the fire. "Mother, it is getting hot in Boston." "Hot, Vesper?" and she stretched out one little white hand towards the fireplace. "This is an exceptional day. The wind is easterly and raw, and it is raining. Remember what perfect weather we have had. It is the first of June; it ought to be getting warm." "I do not wish to leave Boston until the last of the month," said the little lady, decidedly, "unless,—unless," and she wistfully surveyed him, "it is better for your health to go away." [Pg 15]
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