With misty eyes I stared at my picture and read in the book of my soul.
My glance dropped. In the open door under the picture of the bird stood a tall lady in a dark dress. It was she. I could not utter a word.
The beautiful woman smiled at me in a friendly way beneath features like her son’s, timeless and without age, full of an animated will.
Her look was fulfillment, her greeting meant home-coming.
In silence I stretched out my hands to her. She seized both mine with her strong, warm ones.
“You are Sinclair. I knew you at once. I am very glad to see you!”
Her voice was deep and warm, I drank it in like sweet wine.
And now I looked up in her tranquil face, into the black eyes of unfathomable depth.
I looked at her fresh, ripe mouth, queenly forehead, which bore the sign.
“How glad I am!” I said to her and kissed her hands. “I believe I have been on my way all my life long—but now I have come home.”
She smiled in a motherly way. “One never comes home,” she said gently.
“But where friendly roads converge, the whole world looks for an hour like home.”
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