"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. It was very unusual--and very beautiful."

"When we were together, before I went away, I was a mere lad," continued
the artist. "I knew in a general way that father had been a successful
lawyer, and quite prominent in politics; and--because there was no change
in our manner of living after his death, and there seemed to be always
money for whatever we wanted, I suppose--I assumed, thoughtlessly, that
there would always be plenty. During the years while I was at school,
there was never, in any way, the slightest hint in mother's letters that
would lead me to question the abundance of her resources. When they called
me home,--" his voice broke, "--I found my mother dying--almost in
poverty--our home stripped of the art treasures she loved--her own room,
even, empty of everything save the barest necessities." In bitter sorrow