lent to put forth petals, Michael had no thought but for that
which she had never given him yet, and which, now it began to expand
before him, he knew he had missed all his life.

She took up his big hand that lay on his knee and began timidly stroking
it.

"Since you have been away," she said, "and since your father has been
vexed with you, I have begun to see how lonely you must have been. What
taught me that, I am afraid, was only that I have begun to feel lonely,
too. Nobody wants me; even Petsy, when she died, didn't want me to be
near her, and then it began to strike me that perhaps you might want me.
There was no one else, and who should want me if my son did not? I never
gave you the chance before, God forgive me, and now perhaps it is too
late. You have learned to do without me."

That was bitterly true; the truth of it stabbed Michael. On his side,
as he knew, he had made no effort either, or if he had they had been but
childish efforts, easily repulsed. He had not troubled about it, and if
she was to blame, the blame was his also. She had been slow to show the
mother-instinct, but he had been just as wanting in the tenderness of
the son.

He was profoundly touched by this humble timidity, by the sincerity,
vague but unquestionable, that lay behind it.

"It's never too late, is it?" he said, bending down and kissing the thin
white hands that held his. "We are in time, after all, aren't we?"

She gave a little shiver.

"Oh, don't kiss my hands, Michael," she said. "It hurts me that you
should do that. But it is sweet of you to say that I am not too late,
after all. Michael, may I just take you in my arms--may I?"

He half rose.

"Oh, mother, how can you ask?" he said.

"Then let me do it. No, my darling, don't move. Just sit still as you
are, and let me just get my arms about you, and put my head on your
shoulder, and hold me close like that for a moment, so that I can
realise that I am not too late."

She got up, and, leaning over him, held him so for a moment, pressing
her cheek close to his, and kissing him on the eyes and on the mouth.

"Ah, that is nice," she said. "It makes my loneliness fall away from me.
I am not quite alone any more. And now, if you are not tired will you
let me talk to you a little more, and learn a little more about you?"

She pulled her chair again nearer him, so that sitting there she could
clasp his arm.

"I want your happiness, dear," she said, "but there is so l