She led him up and down halls and from floor to floor.

“Of course you know this room—­the nursery.  Here is where you began to be a bad boy; and you began before you can remember.  Did you never see these things before?  They were your first soldiers—­I have left them to Dent.  And here are some of Dent’s things that I have left to you.  For one thing, his castanets.  His father and I never knew why he cried for castanets.  He said that Dent by all the laws of spiritual inheritance from his side should be wanting the timbrel and harp—­Biblical influence, you understand; but that my influence interfered and turned timbrel and harp into castanets.  Do you remember the day when you ran away with Dent and took him to a prize fight?  After that you wanted boxing-gloves, and Dent was crazy for a sponge.  You fought him, and he sponged you.  Here is the sponge; I do not know where the gloves are.  And here are some things that belong to both of you; they are mine; they go with me.”  She laid her hand on a little box wrapped and tied, then quickly shut the closet.

In a room especially fragrant with lavender she opened a press in the wall and turned her face away from him for a moment.

“This is my bridal dress.  This was my bridal veil; it has been the bridal veil of girls in my family for a good many generations.  These were my slippers; you see I had a large foot; but it was well shaped—­it was a woman’s foot.  That was my vanity—­not to have a little foot.  I leave these things to you both.  I hope each of you may have a daughter to wear the dress and the veil.”  For the first time she dashed some tears from her eyes.  “I look to my sons for sons and daughters.”

It was near sunset when they stood again at the foot of the staircase.  She was white and tired, but her spirit refused to be conquered.

“I think I shall He down now,” she said, “so I shall say good night to you here, Rowan.  Fix the tray for me yourself, pour me out some tea, and butter me a roll.”  They stood looking into each other’s eyes.  She saw things in his which caused her suddenly to draw his forehead over and press her lips to one and then to the other, again and again.

The sun streamed through the windows, level and red, lighting up the darkened hall, lighting up the head and shoulders of his mother.

An hour later he sat at the head of his table alone—­a table arranged for two instead of three.  At the back of his chair waited the aged servitor of the household, gray-haired, discreet, knowing many things about earlier days on which rested the seal of incorruptible silence.  A younger servant performed the duties.

He sat at the head of his table and excused the absence of his mother and forced himself with the pride and dignity of his race to give no sign of what had passed that day.  His mother’s maid entered, bringing him in a crystal vase a dark red flower for his coat.  She had always given him that same dark red flower after he had turned into manhood.  “It is your kind,” she said; “I understand.”