"I am so glad to see you, Mrs. Herrick. Won't you come in? I was just putting the children to bed."
"So I see. And we're going right on with the process." Jean hoisted her namesake to her shoulder and started for the stairs, dragging the rotund Frank by the hand.
When they were safely tucked in and Jean had recounted as much of the old witch who was turned into a gingerbread house as she could remember, and promised to come soon, "very, very soon, lots soon," Pat turned off the light and she and Jean went down to the cool dark piazza. And then, for the first time, in her gratitude for the darkness, Jean realized how deeply she hated to lie to Pat. She would have given much to be able to throw both arms about Pat and say:
"Patsy, I want you to help me. I want you to take mummy out of the way. I want this last month, free and beautiful for the most glorious thing in my life. There is only one little month left, Pat, four short weeks, and I want them so."
"I thought you were never going to come any more, Jean, and I was beginning to get 'hurt,' like mummy."
"It wasn't because I didn't want to come." Jean looked out into the moonlit garden. "But I've been terribly busy, and mummy hasn't been well. The words left Jean with the feeling that something very deep inside her had been ripped out.
"Mummy not well? Why, Jean, what's the matter?"
"I don't know, Pat. You know she never complains and would sit up in her coffin to explain that she was perfectly well. But she isn't. I want her to go away for a rest, but you know how likely she is to do that. I can't go along, too."
"The summer has been a fright. Even Frankie got rather peaked last month, and it takes a great deal to wear an ounce off him."
There was a short pause, and then Jean added, with an effort at a laugh: