She had promised Goodlaw that she would not take the boy to her home
until after the conclusion of the trial. He had explained to her that
to anticipate the verdict of the jury in this way might, in a certain
event, prejudice not only her interests but her son's also. And the
time would be so short now that she thought surely she could wait.
She had resolved, indeed, not to see nor to speak to the lad, out of
court, until full permission had been granted to her to do so. Then,
when the time came, she would revel in the brightness of his presence.
That there still lingered in her mind a doubt as to his identity was
nothing. She would not think of that. It was only a prejudice fixed
by long years of belief in her child's death, a prejudice so firmly
rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out.
But it would not greatly matter, she thought, if it should chance that
Ralph was not her son. He was a brave, good boy, worthy of the best
that could come to him, and she loved him. Indeed, during these last
few days her heart had gone out to him with an affection so strange
and a desire so strong that she felt that only his presence could
satisfy it. She could not be glad enough that the trial, now so nearly
to its close, would result in giving to her a son. It was a strange
defeat, indeed, to cause her such rejoicing. On this peaceful Sunday
morning her mind was full with plans for the lad's comfort, for his
happiness and his education. But the more she thought upon him the
greater grew her longing to have him with her, the harder it became
to repress her strong desire to see him, to speak to him, to kiss his
face, to hold him in her arms.
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