The woman was looking into the dusk. Her hair, short like a boy’s, curled a little about the ears. She pushed it back as she looked, her eyes deepening and widening. It was a gentle face, with a sharp line between the eyes, that broke its quiet. She sank back with a little sigh. Foolish to look.... He could not come. She must think of something.... The twilights were long and heavy.... What was it he had written?... Hollyhocks? yes; that was it!—in the garden. He had said she should have them—next summer. She leaned back with closed eyes and folded hands, watching them—pink and rose and crimson, white with flushing red, standing stiff and straight against the wall. They were so cool and sturdy, and they brought the sunshine.... The dark floated wide and lost itself in a sky of light. The smile crept back to her lips. She stirred a little. The door opened and closed.... His hands scarcely touched her as he bent and kissed her.

“It’s you—!” a little cry of doubt and delight.

“It’s me, mother.” The words laughed to her quietly.

She put out a hand. “How long can you stay?” She was stroking his coat.

“Always.”

“What—?” The hand pushed him from her. The eyes scanned his face.

“Always,” he repeated cheerfully, “if you want me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want you. I wrote you I was—happy.”

“Yes. You wrote it too often—and too hard.” He was smiling at her. But the lamps were misty. “Did you think I would n’t see?”

“Oh, dear—oh, dear—dear, dear!” It was a little wail of reproach at his foolishness—and hers. “And you were doing so well!”

“I can do better here. What’s burning!” He sniffed a little.

She glanced anxiously toward the kitchen. “Your father put some crusts in the oven to brown. It can’t he—”

“It can’t be anything else,” said John.

When he came back he told her of the great Dr. Blake.

They sat in silence while the room drew dark about them.

Now and then she reached out and touched his coat softly.

“Tomorrow then—!” half-doubtfully, when he bade her good night.

“Tomorrow we shall see the great doctor,” he assented cheerfully. “Good night, mother.”

“Good night, my son.”

The great doctor looked her over keenly, with eyes that saw everything and saw nothing.

“A little trouble in walking!”

“Yes.”

“And nervous sometimes—a little!”

He might have been a neighbor, inquiring after her health. The little woman forgot herself and her fear of him. She told him, very simply, of the long nights—when the walls seemed closing in and there was no air except under the sky, and her feet refused to carry her. The line between her eyes grew deeper as she talked, but the hands in her lap were very quiet. She did not shrink while the doctor’s sensitive fingers traveled up and down her spine with almost roseleaf touch. Only once she gave a quick cry of pain.

“I see. I see. A little tender.”

“Yes.” It was almost a gasp, with a quick drawing in of the lip.

“I see.” He nodded. “Yes. That will do—very nicely.”

He led her away to another room—to rest a little before the journey. When he returned his glance met the boy’s absently.

He arranged trifles on his desk—paperweight and pens and blotter—as affairs of importance, before he spoke, casually:

“She will always be ill—Yes. It is a hopeless case—Yes.” He paused a little between the words, giving the boy time. “She will suffer—more than she has yet. But we can help a little.” He had drawn a paper toward him and was writing his hieroglyphics with slow care, not looking up. “We will ease it, all we can. Keep her mind at rest. Make her happy.” He turned his spectacles on the young man. “You can make her happy. That will do more for her than I can.... Will she live? Yes, yes. Longer than the rest, perhaps.... Shall you tell her?—not today, I think—some other time. She is a little tired. She is a brave woman.”

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