"She died, of course," said Archie simply. "Or she'd have come back for me. There were people who thought--" he swallowed hard--"that she left me here on purpose, and never meant to come back. That isn't so. I don't know much about her, but I do know that she loved her child. You, can't fool a kid about that!... And there were people who thought she killed herself. But I don't somehow believe she was a quitter. What do _you_ think?"
He had taken a photograph out of his pocket, and handed it to Joan, who studied it closely. Despite the unbecoming "fringe" and jersey of an earlier day, it was a lovely face she saw, without a hint of folly or weakness or worse. The chin was firm as Archie's, the features strong as they were delicate. The face was still rounded and soft with youth, yet out of it looked a pair of haunted eyes.
"No, your mother was no coward," she said with conviction. "But she was a very unhappy woman. And Archie--she was a lady!" The look of race seemed to her unmistakable.
He drew a great breath. "I think so, too," he said gladly, "I've always thought so. That's how I dared--" Suddenly, passionately, he drew her up into his arms. "Oh, my Joan, do you see why I wanted you here in my own home? It's all the home I've ever had. Anything that's happened to me has happened here. I've lain here at night trying to be a man when I was nothing more than a kid. I've sat here listening, listening--Oh, for years I used to think I heard my mother coming up the stairs to get me, long after I was old enough to know she never would! And sometimes I thought--Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Yes!" said Joan. "Ghosts of people that love us and want to help--"
"That's what I mean! And that's why I wanted to stay on in this room, where--she could find me. It's a horrible thing not to belong anywhere, nor to any one, like any little fyst dog in the streets. I've never said this before--"
"And now that I do belong to some one, I wanted my room to know it. I wanted--in case there _were_ any ghosts--"
"I know," whispered Joan again, her lips against his.
There was a taste of salt on them, and she held him close and closer, this great, lonely child who should never be lonely again. If, as she had warned him, she was not capable of offering deep love, Joan could at least offer deep understanding, which perhaps is rarer....