the station, he forgot
everything. Four days were clear--not an anxiety, not a thought. The two
young men simply enjoyed themselves. Paul was like another man. None of
himself remained--no Clara, no Miriam, no mother that fretted him. He
wrote to them all, and long letters to his mother; but they were jolly
letters that made her laugh. He was having a good time, as young fellows
will in a place like Blackpool. And underneath it all was a shadow for
her.

Paul was very gay, excited at the thought of staying with his mother in
Sheffield. Newton was to spend the day with them. Their train was late.
Joking, laughing, with their pipes between their teeth, the young men
swung their bags on to the tram-car. Paul had bought his mother a little
collar of real lace that he wanted to see her wear, so that he could
tease her about it.

Annie lived in a nice house, and had a little maid. Paul ran gaily up
the steps. He expected his mother laughing in the hall, but it was
Annie who opened to him. She seemed distant to him. He stood a second in
dismay. Annie let him kiss her cheek.

"Is my mother ill?" he said.

"Yes; she's not very well. Don't upset her."

"Is she in bed?"

"Yes."

And then the queer feeling went over him, as if all the sunshine had
gone out of him, and it was all shadow. He dropped the bag and ran
upstairs. Hesitating, he opened the door. His mother sat up in bed,
wearing a dressing-gown of old-rose colour. She looked at him almost as
if she were ashamed of herself, pleading to him, humble. He saw the ashy
look about her.

"Mother!" he said.

"I thought you were never coming," she answered gaily.

But he only fell on his knees at the bedside, and buried his face in the
bedclothes, crying in agony, and saying:

"Mother--mother--mother!"

She stroked his hair slowly with her thin hand.

"Don't cry," she said. "Don't cry--it's nothing."

But he felt as if his blood was melting into tears, and he cried in
terror and pain.

"Don't--don't cry," his mother faltered.

Slowly she stroked his hair. Shocked out of himself, he cried, and the
tears hurt in every fibre of his body. Suddenly he stopped, but he dared
not lift his face out of the bedclothes.

"You ARE late. Where have you been?" his mother asked.

"The train was late," he replied, muffled in the sheet.

"Yes; that miserable Central! Is Newton come?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure you must be hungry, and they've kept dinner waiting."

With a wrenc