Verus gazed at Sabina with growing astonishment.  She had always been kinder to him than to any one else in the world and he felt bound to her by all the ties of gratitude and the sweet memories of childhood.  Even as a boy, out of all his playfellows he was the only one who, far from fearing her had clung to her.  But to-night! who had ever seen Sabina in such a mood?  Was this the harsh bitter woman whose heart seemed filled with gall, whose tongue cut like a dagger every one against whom she used it?  Was this Sabina who no doubt was kindly disposed towards him but who loved no one else, not even herself?  Did he see rightly, or was he under some delusion?  Tears, genuine, honest, unaffected tears filled her eyes as she went on: 

“Here I he, a poor sickly woman, sensitive in body and in soul as if I were covered with wounds.  Every movement, and even the gaze and the voice of most of my fellow-creatures is a pain to me.  I am old, much older than you think and so wretched, so wretched, none of you can imagine how wretched.  I was never happy as a child, never as a girl, and as a wife—­merciful gods!—­every kind word that Hadrian has ever vouchsafed me I have paid for with a thousand humiliations.”

“He always treats you with the utmost esteem,” interrupted Verus.

“Before you, before the world!  But what do I care for esteem!  I may demand the respect, the adoration of millions and it will be mine.  Love, love, a little unselfish love is what I ask—­and if only I were sure, if only I dared to hope that you give me such love, I would thank you with all that I have, then this hour would be hallowed to me above all others.”

“How can you doubt me Mother?  My dearly beloved Mother!”

“That is comfort, that is happiness!” answered Sabina.  “Your voice is never too loud for me, and I believe you, I dare trust you.  This hour makes you my son, makes me your mother.”

Tender emotion, the emotion that softens the heart, thrilled through Sabina’s dried-up nature and sparkled in her eyes.  She felt like a young wife of whom a child is born, and the voice of her heart sings to her in soothing tones:  “It lives, it is mine, I am the providence of a living soul, I am a mother.”

She gazed blissfully into Verus’ eyes and exclaimed, “Give me your hand my son, help me up, for I will be here no longer.  What good spirits I feel in!  Yes, this is the joy that is allotted to other women before their hair is grey!  But child—­dear and only child—­you must love me really as a mother.  I am too old for tender trifling, and yet I could not bear it if you gave me nothing but a child’s reverence.  No, no, you must be my friend whose heart warns him of my wishes, who can laugh with me to-day, and weep with me to-morrow—­and who shows that he is happier when his eye meets mine.  You are now my son; and soon you shall have the name of son; that is happiness enough for one evening.  Not another word—­this hour is like the finished masterpiece of some great painter; every touch that could be added might spoil it.  You may kiss my forehead, I will kiss yours; now I will go to rest, and to-morrow when I wake I shall say to myself that I possess something worth living for—­a child, a son.”