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 the table and his face hidden in them, sat Dick Peyton.

He did not seem to hear his mother's approach, and she stood looking at him, her breast tightening with a new fear.

&quot;Dick!&quot; she said, &quot;Dick—!&quot; and he sprang up, staring with dazed eyes. But gradually, as his gaze cleared, a light spread in it, a mounting brightness of recognition.

&quot;You've come—you've come—&quot; he said, stretching his hands to her; and all at once she had him in her breast as in a shelter.

&quot;You wanted me?&quot; she whispered as she held him.

He looked up at her, tired, breathless, with the white radiance of the runner near the goal.

&quot;I had you, dear!&quot; he said, smiling strangely on her; and her heart gave a great leap of understanding.

Her arms had slipped from his neck, and she stood leaning on him, deep-suffused in