"

Strange that she could thus speak that name! But over how many a buried
grief does the grass grow green in thirty years!

In the hall they encountered a young man.

"Harold," said Mrs. Gwynne, "give welcome to an old--a very old friend
of mine--Captain Angus Rothesay. Angus, this is my son--my only son,
Harold."

And she looked upon him as a mother, widowed for twenty years, looks
upon an only son; yet the pride was tempered with dignity, the affection
was veiled under reserve. She, who doubtless would have sustained his
life with her own heart's blood, had probably never since his boyhood
suffered him to know a mother's passionate tenderness, or to behold a
mother's tear.

Perhaps that was the reason that Harold's whole manner was the
reflection of her own. Not that he was like her in person; for nature
had to him been far more bountiful. But there was a certain rigidness
and harshness in his mien, and a slightly repellant atmosphere around
him. Probably not one of the young lambs of his flock had ever dreamed
of climbing the knee of the Reverend Harold Gwynne. Though he wore the
clerical garb, he did not look at all apostle-like; he was neither a St.
Paul nor a St. John. Yet a grand, noble head it was. It might have been
sketched for that of a young philosopher--a Galileo or a Priestley, with
the heavy, strongly-marked brows. The eyes--hackneyed as the description
is, no one can paint a man without mentioning his eyes: those of Harold
Gwynne were not unlike his mother's, in their open, steadfast look;
yet they were not soft, like hers, but of steel-grey, diamond-clear.
He carried his head very erect; and these eyes of his seemed as though
unable to rest on the ground; they were always turned upwards, with
a gaze--not reverent or dreamy--but eager, inquiring, and piercing as
truth itself.

Such was the young man with whom Captain Rothesay shook hands,
congratulating his old friend on having such a son.

"You are more fortunate than I," he said; "my marriage has only bestowed
on me a daughter."

"Daughters are a great comfort sometimes," answered Mrs. Gwynne;
"though, for my part, I never wished for one."

The quick, reproachful glance of Harold sought his mother's face; and
shortly afterwards he re-entered his study.

"My son thinks I meant to include a daughter-in-law," was Mrs. Gwynne's
remark, while the concealed playfulness about her mouth appeared. "He is
soon to bring me one."

"I know it--and k