ng George. Dinner was not quite finished
when, without warning, sleep hit him hard. His burning eyes could no
longer restrain the lids above them; his head sagged beyond control; and
he got to his feet, and went lurching upstairs, yawning with exhaustion.
From the door of his room, which he closed mechanically, with his eyes
shut, he went blindly to his bed, fell upon it soddenly, and slept--with
his face full upturned to the light.

It was after midnight when he woke, and the room was dark. He had not
dreamed, but he woke with the sense that somebody or something had been
with him while he slept--somebody or something infinitely compassionate;
somebody or something infinitely protective, that would let him come to
no harm and to no grief.

He got up, and pressed the light on. Pinned to the cover of his
dressing-table was a square envelope, with the words, "For you, dear,"
written in pencil upon it. But the message inside was in ink, a little
smudged here and there.

I have been out to the mail-box, darling, with a letter I've written to
Eugene, and he'll have it in the morning. It would be unfair not to let
him know at once, and my decision could not change if I waited. It would
always be the same. I think it, is a little better for me to write to
you, like this, instead of waiting till you wake up and then telling
you, because I'm foolish and might cry again, and I took a vow once,
long ago, that you should never see me cry. Not that I'll feel like
crying when we talk things over tomorrow. I'll be "all right and fine"
(as you say so often) by that time--don't fear. I think what makes me
most ready to cry now is the thought of the terrible suffering in your
poor face, and the unhappy knowledge that it is I, your mother who put
it there. It shall never come again! I love you better than anything
and everything else on earth. God gave you to me--and oh! how thankful
I have been every day of my life for that sacred gift--and nothing can
ever come between me and God's gift. I cannot hurt you, and I cannot let
you stay hurt as you have been--not another instant after you wake up,
my darling boy! It is beyond my power. And Eugene was right--I know you
couldn't change about this. Your suffering shows how deep-seated the
feeling is within you. So I've written him just about what I think you
would like me to--though I told him I would always be fond of him and
always his best friend, and I hoped his dearest friend. He'll unde