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 are making up to me for a great many barren years."

"Mother, you never speak about my father. Did you love him?"

"No, not after the first six weeks of living with him," she admitted bitterly. "That's the reason I didn't want you. I suppose you were a reminder. Not that that excuses my neglect," she added.

"I don't mind now. Of course I hate to think of all those years we missed together; but I loved you so, that if you'd never cared at all, it would have made no difference in my feeling."

"I am the one who has lost, dear—all your sweet freshness, your new interests, your revivifying youngness. I shall have to make up for my wilful loss in the years to come."

The arms clung closer in the darkness. "You love me enough to make me your friend now, don't you, mother?"

"Of course, dear."