The sultry night at last was broken by a breathless dawn, the sun rising a red ball over the farm lands beyond the massed maple trees of the town. Not much refreshed by the attempt at sleep in the stuffy little rooms, Don and his mother met once more in the little kitchen dining-room where she had prepared the simple breakfast.

He did not know, as he picked at the crisp bacon strips, that bacon, or even eggs, made an unusual breakfast in his mother's household. He trifled with his cereal and his coffee, happily too considerate to mention the lack of butter and cream, but grumblingly sensible all the time that the bread was no longer fresh. He was living in a new world, the world of the very poor. His time had not yet been sufficient therein to give him much understanding.

He looked about him at the scantily furnished rooms, and in spite of himself there rose before his mind pictures he had known these last few years—wide green parks, with oaks and elms, stately buildings draped with ivy, flowers about, and everywhere the air of quiet ease. He recalled the fellowship of fresh-cheeked roistering youths like himself, full of the zest of life, youth well-clad, with the stamp of having known the good things of life; young women well-clad, well-appointed, also. Books, art, the touch of the wide world of thought, the quiet, the comfort, the beauty, the physical well-being of everything about him—these had been a daily experience for him for years. He unthinkingly had supposed that all life, all the world, must continue much like this. He had supposed, had he given it any thought at all, that the last meager bill in his pockets when he started home would in some magic way always remain unneeded, always unspent. He had opportunity waiting for him in his profession, and he knew he would get on. Never before in all his life had he known the widow's cruse.

So this was life, then—this little room, this tawdry, sullen town, this hot and lifeless air, this hopelessly banal and uninteresting place that had been his mother's home all these years—this was his beginning of actual life! The first lesson he had had yesterday; the next, yet more bitter, he must have today. The uninviting little kitchen seemed to him the center of a drab and dismal world, in which could never be aught of happiness for him or his.

"It's not much, Don," said his mother, smiling bravely as her eyes noted his abstraction. "I live so simply—I'm afraid a big man like you won't get enough to eat with me."

She did not mention her special preparations for his arrival. He did not know that the half-dozen new serviettes had been bought for his coming. He did not know that a new chair also had been purchased, and that he himself was sitting in it at that very time. In short, he knew nothing of the many sacrifices needful even for these inexpensive things about him. He did not know that marvel of the widow's cruse, filled against dire need by the hand of merciful Providence.

"It's all right, Mother," said he, toying with his fork; "fine, fine."

"Coffee strong enough, Don?" She looked at him anxiously. Usually she made it weak for herself.

"Oh, they never let us have it at all when we're training, mother," said he, "and not strong at any time. I know the simple life." He smiled as best he might.

"I have lived it here, too, Don," said she slowly, "because I couldn't well help it. I don't suppose anybody likes it when it's too simple. I like things nice, so much. I've always longed to travel. You know, Don, I hear of people going over to Europe, and I'm guilty of the sin of envy. I live right here in this little place all the time—I've done so all my life. I've scarcely been out of this town in twenty years. If I could see pictures—if I could go to see the great actors—if I could see a real theater—just once, Don—you don't know how happy I'd be. And I'm sure there must be more beautiful countries than this. Still"—and here she sighed—"Miss Julia and I have lived quite a life together—in the books, the magazines—pictures too, sometimes."

He looked at her dumbly now, trying to understand the steady heroism of a life such as hers. The real character of his own mother never yet fully had impressed itself upon him. Don Lane was a college graduate, but now for the first time in his life he was beginning to think.

"One thing," she added, "I'd never do. I'd never pretend to be what I was not—I didn't ever pretend to have what I didn't have. You see me, Don, and my life, pretty much as we are."

"And all this has been for me?"

"Yes," simply. "But although we grew up apart, I don't think I could endure it if I thought we really were to part—if you would leave me now.

"I was half hoping," she went on musingly, "that you could find it in your heart to stay here in this town."

He shook his head. "Impossible! That's one thing you really mustn't ask of me."

"Yes, I feared you would think of it in that way! But, as for me, this is my place—I've made my bed here, and I must lie in it. I know the people of this town—I know what they'll all do to me now. You see, you don't know these things yet."

"No," said he, "but you and Miss Julia both will be paid back—the money part of it—some time. As for me, I'm not going to have any home."

She sat silent for quite a time, the meager breakfast now being ended for both.

"Oh, can't you forget her, Don? Can't you give her up?" she said finally.

"I can't forget her, Mother, but I'll have to give her up. It all happened there on the car—just at once—in public."

"I'm glad you never kissed her, Don," said she. "You're both so young."

She shook her head slowly as she went on. "Love has to be loved in any case. That means—I suppose it means—that for the very young, if it be not one, it may later be another."

He only smiled bitterly at this. "It all comes to the same thing in any case," said he. "I'll have to tell her what I know, and we'll have to part. It would be the same with any other woman, if there could be any other. There can't be."

"I've been frank with you, Don, and I don't know whether to be glad or sorry for that. I'd love nothing so much in the world as to see you happily married—but nothing in the world could so much hurt me as to see you marry Anne Oglesby."

"No fear of it!"

"You'll tell her?"

"Yes. Today."