"Mr.Lagrange," he said, at last, "there are some things about--about mother--that I would like to tell you--that I think she would want me to tell you, under the circumstances." "Yes," said Conrad Lagrange, gently.
"Well,--to begin,--you know, perhaps, how much mother and I have always been--" his fine voice broke and the older man bowed his head; but, with a slight lift of his determined chin, the painter went on calmly--"to each other.

After father's death, until I was seventeen, we were never separated.

She was my only teacher.

Then I went away to school, seeing her only during my vacations, which we always spent, together in the country.
Three years ago, I went abroad to finish my study.

I did not see her again until--until I was called home." "I know," came in low tones from the other.
"But, sir, while it seemed necessary that I should be away from home,--that we should be separated,--all through this period, we exchanged almost daily letters; planning for the future, and looking forward to the time when we could, again, be together." "I know, Aaron.