Verdayne found it growing harder and harder for him to speak.

“I do not think that strange, Boy.  Others would not understand it, but I do.  She was so intensely a mother that the spirit of the great Holy Mother must have been at all times hovering closely about her!  Her deepest desires centred about her son.  You were the embodiment of the greatest, sweetest joys—­if not the only real joys—­of her strangely unhappy life, and her whole thought, her one hope, was for you.  In your soul must live all the unrealized hopes and crucified ideals of the woman who, always every inch a queen, was never more truly regal than in the supreme hour that crowned her your mother.”

“And am I like her, Uncle Paul?  Am I really like her?”

“So much so, Boy, that she sometimes seems to live again in you.  Like her, you believe so thoroughly in the goodness and greatness of a God—­in the beauty and glory of the world fraught with lessons of life and death—­in the omnipotence of Fate—­in the truth and power and grandeur of overmastering love.  You believe in the past, in all the dreams and legends of the Long Ago still relived in the Now, in the capabilities of the human mind, the kingship of the soul.  Your voice is hers, every tone and cadence is as her own voice repeating her own words.  Be glad, Paul, that you are like your mother, and hope that with the power to think her thoughts and dream lier dreams, you may also have the power to love as she loved, and, if need be, die her death!”

“But you think the same thoughts, Uncle Paul.  You believe all I believe!”

“Because she taught me, Paul—­because she taught me!  I slept the sleep of the blind and deaf and soulless until her touch woke my soul into being.  You have always been alive to the joy of the world and the beauty of living.  Your soul was born with your body and lived purposefully from the very beginning of things.  You were born for a purpose and that purpose showed itself even in infancy.”

A silence fell between the two men.  A long time they sat in that sympathetic communion, each busy with his own thoughts.  The older Paul was lost in memories of the past, for his life lay all behind him—­the younger Paul was indulging in many dreams of a roseate future, for his life was all ahead of him.

It was a friendship that the world often wondered about—­this strange intimacy between Paul Verdayne, the famous Member of Parliament, and the young man from abroad who called himself Paul Zalenska.  None knew exactly where Monsieur Zalenska came from, and as they had long ago learned the futility of questioning either of the men about personal affairs, had at last reconciled themselves to never finding out.  Everyone suspected that the Boy was a scion of rank—­and some went so far as to say of royalty, but beyond the fact that every May he came with his faithful, foreign-looking attendant to Verdayne Place and spent the summer months with the Verdayne family, nothing definite was actually known.  His elderly attendant certainly spoke some beastly foreign jargon and went by the equally beastly foreign name of Vasili.  He was known to worship his young master and to attend him with the most marked servility, but he was never questioned, and had he been, would certainly have told no tales.