ent
there.

Whatever remnants of the old high-handed arrogance were still within
him, he did penance for his deepest sin that night--and it may be that
to this day some impressionable, overworked woman in a "kitchenette,"
after turning out the light will seem to see a young man kneeling in the
darkness, shaking convulsively, and, with arms outstretched through the
wall, clutching at the covers of a shadowy bed. It may seem to her that
she hears the faint cry, over and over:

"Mother, forgive me! God, forgive me!"

Chapter XXXII

At least, it may be claimed for George that his last night in the house
where he had been born was not occupied with his own disheartening
future, but with sorrow for what sacrifices his pride and youth had
demanded of others. And early in the morning he came downstairs and
tried to help Fanny make coffee on the kitchen range.

"There was something I wanted to say to you last night, Aunt Fanny," he
said, as she finally discovered that an amber fluid, more like tea than
coffee, was as near ready to be taken into the human system as it would
ever be. "I think I'd better do it now."

She set the coffee-pot back upon the stove with a little crash, and,
looking at him in a desperate anxiety, began to twist her dainty apron
between her fingers without any consciousness of what she was doing.

"Why--why--" she stammered; but she knew what he was going to
say, and that was why she had been more and more nervous.
"Hadn't--perhaps--perhaps we'd better get the--the things moved to the
little new home first, George. Let's--"

He interrupted quietly, though at her phrase, "the little new home," his
pungent impulse was to utter one loud shout and run. "It was about this
new place that I wanted to speak. I've been thinking it over, and I've
decided. I want you to take all the things from mother's room and use
them and keep them for me, and I'm sure the little apartment will be
just what you like; and with the extra bedroom probably you could find
some woman friend to come and live there, and share the expense with
you. But I've decided on another arrangement for myself, and so I'm not
going with you. I don't suppose you'll mind much, and I don't see why
you should mind--particularly, that is. I'm not very lively company
these days, or any days, for that matter. I can't imagine you, or any
one else, being much attached to me, so--"

He stopped in amazement: no chair had been left in the kit