than you can guess. What do you
mean by speaking so?"

With closed eyes, shutting him out, she spoke, anger and terror in her
voice.

Augustine lifted himself and stood with his hands clenched looking at
her.

"You say that because you love him. You love him more than anything or
anyone in the world."

"I do. I love him more than anyone or anything in the world. How have
you dared--in silence--in secret--to nourish these thoughts against the
man who has given you all you have."

"He hasn't given me all I have. You are everything in my life and he is
nothing. He is selfish. He is sensual. He is stupid. He doesn't know
what beauty or goodness is. I hate him," said Augustine.

Her eyes at last opened on him. She grasped her chair and raised
herself. Whose hands were these, desecrating her holy of holies. Her
son's? Was it her son who spoke these words? An enemy stood before her.

"Then you do not love me. If you hate him you do not love me,"--her
anger had blotted out her fear, but she could find no other than these
childish words and the tears ran down her face.

"And if you love him you cannot love me," Augustine answered. His
self-mastery was gone. It was a fierce, wild anger that stared back at
her. His young face was convulsed and livid.

"It is you who are bad to have such false, base thoughts!" his mother
cried, and her eyes in their indignation, their horror, struck at him,
accused him, thrust him forth. "You are cruel--and hard--and
self-righteous.--You do not love me.--There is no tenderness in your
heart!"--

Augustine burst into tears. "There is no room in your heart for me!--"
he gasped. He turned from her and rushed out of the room.

* * * * *

A long time passed before she leaned forward in the chair where she had
sat rigidly, rested her elbows on her knees, buried her face in her
hands.

Her heart ached and her mind was empty: that was all she knew. It had
been too much. This torpor of sudden weakness was merciful. Now she
would go to bed and sleep.

It took her a long time to go upstairs; her head whirled, and if she had
not clung to the baluster she would have fallen.

In the passage above she paused outside Augustine's door and listened.
She heard him move inside, walking to his window, to lean out into the
night, probably, as was his wont. That was well. He, too, would sleep
presently.

In her room she said to her maid that she did not need her. It took her