that she recognized in this insistent
piling of one obstacle upon another the budding impulse to yield. She
was willing to press the matter further.

"Oh, clothes are cheaper abroad and living is not nearly so dear. You
could be quite the gentleman on your second year's salary, and, of
course, I can help out with the interest on the twenty thousand. You
forget this."

"By George, I did, mother! You're a trump; but I don't want you to think
I want to cut any figure over there; I don't care enough about 'em. But
I want enough to have a ripping good time to compensate for staying away
so long."

"You need not stay five consecutive years away from home. Look here,
Champney; you have read this letter with your eyes but not with your
wits. Your boiling condition was not conducive to clear-headedness."

"Oh, I say mother! Don't rap a fellow too hard when he's down."

"You're not down; you're up,"--she held her ground with him right
sturdily,--"up on the second round already, my son; only you don't know
it. Here it is in black and white that you can come home for six weeks
after two years, and the fifth year is shortened by three months if all
goes well. What more do you want?"

"That's something, anyway."

"Now, I want you to think this over."

"I wish I could run down to New York for a day or two; it would help a
lot. I could look round and possibly find an opening in the direction I
want. I want to do this before deciding."

"Champney, I shall lose patience with you soon. You know you, can't run
down to New York for even a day. Mr. Van Ostend states the fact baldly:
'Your decision I must have by telegraph, at the latest, by Thursday
noon.' That's day after to-morrow. 'We sail on Saturday.' Mr. Van Ostend
is not a man to waste a breath, as you have said."

Champney had no answer ready. He evaded the question. "I'll tell you
to-morrow, mother. It's late; you mustn't sit up any longer." He looked
at his watch. "One o'clock. Good night."

"Good night, Champney. Leave your door into the hall wide open; it's so
close."

She put out her light and sat down by the window. The night was
breathless; not a leaf of the elm trees quivered. She heard the Rothel
picking its way down the rocky channel of The Gore. She gave herself up
to thought, far-reaching both into the past and the future. Soon,
mingled with the murmur of the brook, she heard her son's quiet measured
breathing. She rose, walked noiselessly down the hall an