“Yes, dear, they certainly would.  But this woman did not know them then, and she was very independent.  She made up her mind that she would work hard, and when she had enough money she would go to see her boy.”

“And did she?” was the eager enquiry.

“Not for years did she see him again.  She worked so hard, and at times people treated her most cruelly.  But her little boy was ever in her mind.  For him she toiled, and for his sake she was willing to put up with almost anything.  She sent what money she could for his support, but that was very little at first.  Then one night she saw her boy!  It was in a city, and she knew who he was, though he didn’t know her.  Oh, how she wanted to put her arms around him, and kiss him.”

“Why didn’t she do it?” Rod asked.  “What stopped her?”

“She was afraid that he wouldn’t love her as a boy should love his mother.  So she made up her mind that she would win his love first, and when she was certain, then she would tell him who she was.”

“And did she?”

“Not for some time.  You see, she went under a name different from her real one.  She saw her husband’s father and mother, and became well acquainted with them.  But she did not tell them who she was, as she wanted them to love her too.  Then, there was something else which kept her from telling people who she really was.  She made her living——­” Here she paused, as if uncertain how to proceed.

“How?” Rod enquired.

“By going on the stage.”

“Oh, she was an actress, then,” the boy exclaimed.  “I have read about such people.”

“No, not exactly that.  But she sang on the stage.”

“Oh!”

“What’s the matter, dear?” the woman enquired.

“Nothing much.  Only something funny came into my mind.  That’s all.”

“Yes, she sang in public,” the story-teller continued, “and she had made an agreement to sing for three years.  She was afraid that if people knew that she was going under a wrong name it might make trouble.  Anyway, she was sure it would make a whole lot of talk, and she didn’t want that to happen for awhile.  It was one night after she was through singing that she met her little boy.  He came with another boy to see her, and asked her to go and sing for a sick girl at Hillcrest.”

With a startled cry of joy, Rod sat up suddenly in bed.  His eyes fairly blazed with excitement, and his body trembled.

“Are you the woman?” he cried.  “Am I the boy?  Are you my mother?  Oh, tell me quick.  Is it really true?”

“Yes, dear,” and the woman caught both of his hands in hers, “every word is true.  You are my own boy, and I am your mother.  Are you glad?”

The expression upon Rod’s face, as with a deep sigh of relief he lay back once more upon the pillow, was answer enough.  All the old dread that the other mother would come back and carry him off suddenly disappeared.  And yet he wondered about the letters she used to write.  A puzzled look came into his eyes.