"Yes; the same as ever."
"But you do not think now that you love her or loved her then?"
"No, mother; I know I do not, and did not."
"Then, Darrell, my boy, some one else has taught you what love really
is?"
For answer Darrell bowed his head in assent over his mother's hand.
For a few moments she silently stroked his hair as in his boyish days;
then she said, in low tones,-"Answer me one question, Darrell: Was she a good, pure woman?"
Darrell raised his head, his eyes looking straight into the searching
dark eyes, so like his own.
"My little mother," he replied, tenderly, "don't think that your
teachings all the past years or the lessons of your own sweet life were
lost in those two years; their influence lived even when memory had
failed."
He bent and kissed her, then added: "She was scarcely more than a child;
not so brilliant, perhaps, as Marion, but beautiful, good, and pure as
the driven snow."
Hearing his father's voice outside, Darrell rose and, picking up his
journal, opened it at the story of his love and Kate's. Then placing it
open upon a table beside his mother, he said,-"There, mother, is the story of my Dream-Love, as I call her. Read it,
and if you should wish to know anything further regarding it, ask my
father, for he knows all."