He was divided between gratitude and indignation. His new-found maturity

seemed to be slipping from him. Somehow here at home they always managed

to make him feel like a small boy.

"Honestly, mother, I'd rather go to father and tell him about it. He'd

make a row, probably, but at least you'd be out of it."

She ignored his protest, as she always ignored protests against her own

methods of handling matters.

"I'm accustomed to it," was her sole reply. But her resigned voice

brought her, as it always had, the ready tribute of the boy's sympathy.

"Sit down, Graham, I want to talk to you."

He sat down, still uneasily fingering the roll of bills. Just how far

Natalie's methods threatened to undermine his character was revealed

when, at a sound in Clayton's room, he stuck the money hastily into his

pocket.

"Have you noticed a change in your father since he came back?"

Her tone was so ominous that he started.

"He's not sick, is he?"

"Not that. But--he's different. Graham, your father thinks we may be

forced into the war."

"Good for us. It's time, that's sure."

"Graham!"

"Why, good heavens, mother," he began, "we should have been in it last

May. We should--"

She was holding out both hands to him, piteously.

"You wouldn't go, would you?"

"I might have to go," he evaded.

"You wouldn't, Graham. You're all I have. All I have left to live for.

You wouldn't need to go. It's ridiculous. You're needed here. Your

father needs you."

"He needs me the hell of a lot," the boy muttered. But he went over and,

stooping down, kissed her trembling face.

"Don't worry about me," he said lightly. "I don't think we've got spine

enough to get into the mix-up, anyhow. And if we have--"

"You won't go. Promise me you won't go."

When he hesitated she resorted to her old methods with both Clayton and

the boy. She was doing all she could to make them happy. She made no

demands, none. But when she asked for something that meant more than

life to her, it was refused, of course. She had gone through all sorts

of humiliation to get him that money, and this was the gratitude she

received.

Graham listened. She was a really pathetic figure, crouched in her low

chair, and shaken with terror. She must have rather a bad time; there

were so many things she dared not take to his father. She brought them

to him instead, her small grievances, her elaborate extravagances, her

disappointments. It did not occur to him that she transferred to his

young shoulders many of her own burdens. He was only grateful for her

confidence, and a trifle bewildered by it. And she had helped him out of

a hole just now.




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