He stopped abruptly just within the
room, gave a glance at the two men, then his eyes went to Mary,
sitting at her desk, with her face lifted inquiringly. He did
not pause to take in the beauty of that face, only its strength.
He stared at her silently for a moment. Then he spoke in his
oritund voice, a little tremulous from anxiety.
"Are you the woman?" he said. There was something simple and
primitive, something of dignity beyond the usual conventions, in
his direct address.
And there was the same primitive simplicity in the answer.
Between the two strong natures there was no subterfuge, no
suggestion of polite evasions, of tergiversation, only the plea
of truth to truth. Mary's acknowledgment was as plain as his own
question.
"I am the woman. What do you want?" ... Thus two honest folk had
met face to face.
"My son." The man's answer was complete.
But Mary touched a tragic note in her question. It was asked in
no frivolous spirit, but, of a sudden, she guessed that his
coming was altogether of his own volition, and not the result of
his son's information, as at first she had supposed.
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