? ? ? ? "What, my boy?" I asked.
? ? ? ? "Your first words to me--they were of my mother. None else but the man who loved her as she has told me my father did would have thought first of her."
? ? ? ? "For long years, my son, I can scarce recall a moment that the radiant vision of your mother's face has not been ever before me. Tell me of her."
? ? ? ? "Those who have known her longest say that she has not changed, unless it be to grow more beautiful--were that possible. Only, when she thinks I am not about to see her, her face grows very sad, and, oh, so wistful. She thinks ever of you, my father, and all Helium mourns with her and for her. Her grandfather's people love her. They loved you also, and fairly worship your memory as the saviour of Barsoom.
? ? ? ? "Each year that brings its anniversary of the day that saw you racing across a near dead world to unlock the secret of that awful portal behind which lay the mighty power of life for countless millions a great festival is held in your honour; but there are tears mingled with the thanksgiving--tears of real regret that the author of the happiness is not with them to share the joy of living he died to give them.
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