t," she said, in a
whisper--"with that and everything." She buried her face in her
crushed pillow again and burst into long wails.

Mrs. Ayres smoothed her hair. "Lucy," said she, "listen. I know what
is going on within you as you don't know it yourself. I know the
agony of it as you don't know it yourself."

"I'd like to know how."

"Because you are my child; because I can hardly sleep for thinking of
you; because every one of my waking moments is filled with you. Lucy,
because I am your mother and you are yourself. I am not taunting you.
I understand."

"You can't."

"I do. I know just how you felt about that young man from the city
who boarded at the hotel six years ago. I know how you felt about Tom
Merrill, who called here a few times, and then stopped, and married a
girl from Boston. I have known exactly how you have felt about all
the others, and--I know about this last." Her voice sank to a whisper.

"I have had some reason," Lucy said, with a terrible eagerness of
self-defence. "I have, mother."

"What?"

"One day, the first year he came, I was standing at the gate beside
that flowering-almond bush, and it was all in flower, and he came
past and he looked at the bush and at me, then at the bush again, and
he said, 'How beautiful that is!' But, mother, he meant me."

"What else?"

"You remember he called here once."

"Yes, Lucy, to ask you to sing at the school entertainment."

"Mother, it was for more than that. You did not hear him speak at the
door. He said, 'I shall count on you; you cannot disappoint me.' You
did not hear his voice, mother."

"What else, Lucy?"

"Once, one night last winter, when I was coming home from the
post-office, it was after dark, and he walked way to the house with
me, and he told me a lot about himself. He told me how all alone in
the world he was, and how hard it was for a man to have nobody who
really belonged to him in the wide world, and when he said good-night
at the gate he held my hand--quite a while; he did, mother."

"What else, Lucy?"

"You remember that picnic, the trolley picnic to Alford. He sat next
to me coming home, and--"

"And what?"

"There were only--four on the seat, and he--he sat very close, and
told me some more about himself: how he had been alone ever since he
was a little boy, and--how hard it had been. Then he asked how long
ago father died, and if I remembered, and if I missed him still."

"I don't quite understand, dear, how