"It is more than I dreamed for--to
face you--alone!"
And a solemn, even voice answered him, "We are not alone."
"Not alone, but the others are too far off to stop me."
"Not alone, Anthony, for your mother is here between us."
Like a fog under a wind, the mist swept from the eyes of Anthony; he
looked out and saw that the face of the grey man was infinitely sad, and
there was a hungry tenderness that reached out, enveloped, weakened him.
He glanced down, saw that his heel was on the mount of the grave; saw
again the headstone and the time-blurred inscription: "Here sleeps Joan,
the wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest."
A mortal weakness and trembling seized him. The wind puffed against his
face, and he went staggering back, his hand caught up to his eyes.
He closed his mind against the words which he had heard.
But the deep organ voice spoke again: "Oh, boy, your mother!"
In the stupor which came over him he saw two faces: the stern eyes of
John Bard, and the dark, mocking beauty of the face which had looked
down to him in John Bard's secret room.
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