There was sorrow, resignation, and a sort of dumb despair in
her attitude.
Howard stood, his throat swelling till it seemed as if he would
suffocate. This was his mother-the woman who bore him, the
being who had taken her life in her hand for him; and he, in his
excited and pleasurable life, had neglected her!
He stepped into the faint light before her. She turned and looked at
him without fear. "Mother!" he said. She uttered one little,
breathing, gasping cry, called his name, rose, and stood still. He
bounded up the steps and took her in his arms.
"Mother! Dear old Mother!"
In the silence, almost painful, which followed, an angry woman's
voice could be heard inside: "I don't care. I am't goin' to wear
myself out fer him. He c'n eat out here with us, or else-"
Mrs. McLane began speaking. "Oh, I've longed to see yeh, Howard.
I was afraid you wouldn't come till-too late."
"What do you mean, Mother? Ain't you well?"
"I don't seem to be able to do much now 'cept sit around and knit a
little. I tried to pick some berries the other day, and I got so dizzy I
had to give it up."
"You mustn't work. You needn't work. Why didn't you write to me
how you were?" Howard asked in an agony of remorse.
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