The woman started. A flush of joy rose upon her withered face. Her comprehension of her son's prosperity had been a limited one. Somehow she had never thought of this. Here was a beautiful, high-bred woman to whom he must be in a manner near, since she spoke of him in this way—as if he had been a gentleman born.
"Jem?" she faltered, innocently. "Yes, ma'am. I hope so. He's—he's told me so."
Then she added, in some hurry:
"Not that I can be much comp'ny to him—it isn't that; if he hadn't been what he is, and had the friends he has, I couldn't be much comp'ny for him. An' as it is, it's not likely he can need a old woman as much as his goodness makes him say he does."
Rachel Ffrench regarded her with interest.
"He is very good," she remarked, "and has a great many friends, I dare say. My father admires him greatly."
"Thank you, ma'am," brightly, "though there's no one could help it. His goodness to me is more than I can tell, an', it's no wonder that others sees it in him an,' is fond of him accordin'."
"No, it's no wonder," in a tone of gentle encouragement.
The flush upon the withered cheek deepened, and the old eyes lit up.
"He's thirty-two year old, Miss," said the loving creature, "an' the time's to come yet when he's done a wrong or said a harsh word. He was honest an' good as a child, an' he's honest an' good as a man. His old mother can say it from the bottom of her full heart."
"It's a very pleasant thing to be able to say," remarked her visitor.
"It's the grateful pride of my life that I can say it,"
