"Mother," said he at last, "who is my father?
Is he dead or alive?"
"God is your father, my son," answered she,
tremblingly. "If you love me, ask me no more."
"I do love you, mother," he said, and gave
her a grave look, in which she thought she
detected a mingling of tenderness and reproach.
"And it shall be as you have said."
It was the first time she had had reason to
blush before him, and her emotion came near
overwhelming her; but with a violent effort
she stifled it, and remained outwardly calm.
He began pacing up and down the floor with
his head bent and his hands on his back. It
suddenly occurred to her that he was a grown
man, and that she could no longer hold the
same relation to him as his supporter and
protector. "Alas," thought she, "if God will but
let me remain his mother, I shall bless and thank Him."
It was the first time this subject had been
broached, and it gave rise to many a doubt and
many a question in the anxious mother's mind.
Had she been right in concealing from him that
which he might justly claim to know? What
had been her motive in keeping him ignorant of
his origin and of the land of his birth? She
had wished him to grow to the strength of man-
hood, unconscious of guilt, so that he might
bear his head upright, and look the world
fearlessly in the face. And still, had there not in
all this been a lurking thought of herself, a fear
of losing his love, a desire to stand pure and
perfect in his eye? She hardly dared to answer
these questions, for, alas, she knew not that even
our purest motives are but poorly able to bear a
searching scrutiny.
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