The wise words of Mr. King had not been without their effect on Gerald.  The tumult of emotions gradually subsided; and he began to realize that these external accidents made no essential change in himself.  The next morning he requested an interview with Mrs. King, and was received alone.  When he entered, she cast upon him a hesitating, beseeching look; but when he said, “My mother!” she flew into his arms, and wept upon his neck.

“Then you do not hate me?” she said, in a voice choked with emotion, “You are not ashamed to call me mother?”

“It was only yesterday,” he replied, “that I thought with pride and joy of the possibility that I might some day call you by that dear name.  If I had heard these particulars without knowing you, they might have repelled me.  But I have admired you from the first moment; I have lately been learning to love you; and I am familiar with the thought of being your son.”

She raised her expressive eyes to his with such a look of love, that he could not refrain from giving her a filial kiss and pressing her warmly to his heart.  “I was so afraid you would regard me with dislike,” said she.  “You can understand now why it made me so faint to think of singing ‘M’odi!  Ah, m’odi!’ with you at Mrs. Green’s party.  How could I have borne your tones of anguish when you discovered that you were connected with the Borgias?  And how could I have helped falling on your neck when you sang ‘Madre mia’?  But I must not forget that the mother who tended your childhood has the best claim to your affection,” she added mournfully.

“I love her, and always shall love her.  It cannot be otherwise,” rejoined he.  “It has been the pleasant habit of so many years.  But ought I not to consider myself a lucky fellow to have two such mothers?  I don’t know how I am to distinguish you.  I must call you Rose-mother and Lily-mother, I believe.”

She smiled as he spoke, and she said, “Then it has not made you so very unhappy to know that you are my son?”

His countenance changed as he replied:  “My only unhappiness is the loss of Eulalia.  That disappointment I must bear as I can.”

“You are both very young,” rejoined she; “and perhaps you may see another—­”

“I don’t want to hear about that now,” he exclaimed impetuously, moving hastily toward the window, against which he leaned for a moment.  When he turned, he saw that his mother was weeping; and he stooped to kiss her forehead, with tender apologies for his abruptness.

“Thank God,” she said, “for these brief moments of happiness with my son.”

“Yes, they must be brief,” he replied.  “I must go away and stay away.  But I shall always think of you with affection, and cherish the deepest sympathy for your wrongs and sufferings.”