Whereupon the musical ancestor was encouraged to speak up again while he had a chance, being a very honored ancestor and not by any means dead in some regions.  Soon, however, the voice pleaded anew with a kind of patient impatience: 

“I’m awfully hungry.  Aren’t you nearly ready?”

The reply could not be heard.

“Are you putting on the dress I like?”

The reply was not heard.

“Don’t you want me to bring you a daffodil to wear at your throat?”

The reply was lost.  For a few minutes the progenitor emptied his ancient lungs of some further moribund intimations of tone.  Later came another protest, truly plaintive: 

“You couldn’t look any nicer!  I’m awfully hungry!”

Then all at once there was a tremendous smash on the keys, a joyous smash, and a moment afterward the door was softly opened.

Mother and son entered the supper-room.  One of his arms was around her waist, one of hers enfolded him about the neck and shoulders; they were laughing as they clung to one another.

The teacher of the portrait class and his pupils would hardly have recognized their model; the stranger on the hillside might not at once have identified the newsboy.  For model and newsboy, having laid aside the masks of the day which so often in New York persons find it necessary to wear,—–­ the tragic mask, the comic mask, the callous, coarse, brutal mask, the mask of the human pack, the mask of the human sty,—­model and newsboy reappeared at home with each other as nearly what in truth they were as the denials of life would allow.

There entered the room a woman of high breeding, with a certain Pallas-like purity and energy of face, clasping to her side her only child, a son whom she secretly believed to be destined to greatness.  She was dressed not with the studied plainness and abnegation of the model in the studio, but out of regard for her true station and her motherly responsibilities.  Her utmost wish was that in years to come, when he should look back upon his childhood, he would always remember with pride his evenings with his mother.  During the day he must see her drudge, and many a picture of herself on a plane of life below her own she knew to be fastened to his growing brain; but as nearly as possible blotting these out, daily blotting them out one by one, must be the evening pictures when the day’s work was done, its disguises dropped, its humiliations over, and she, a serving-woman of fate, reappeared before him in the lineaments of his mother, to remain with him throughout his life as the supreme woman of the human race, his idol until death, his mother.

She now looked worthy of such an ideal.  But it was upon him that her heart lavished every possible extravagance when nightly he had laid aside the coarse half-ragged fighting clothes of the streets.  In those after years when he was to gaze backward across a long distance, he must be made to realize that when he was a little fellow, it was his mother who first had seen his star while it was still low on the horizon; and that from the beginning she had so reared him that there would be stamped upon his attention the gentleness of his birth and a mother’s resolve to rear him in keeping with this through the neediest hours.