"Your room is next—there," nodding his head to the open doorway, and glancing up in his sister's immovable face. "I hope I made my divisions rightly: I thought you would like to be near mother."
"It is all as well as it can be, I suppose," she answered with weary indifference.
There came to Fred Lawrence just then a painful sense of want and loss, a far-reaching sympathy in something that had never been, and now, when the outside glitter was torn away, left life cold and barren. Was human love so much?
His mother went on in her weak, inconsequent way, yet her foolish praise was very sweet to him. He had been living such a lonely life for months, that even he was grateful for something that looked like home, for a woman's figure flitting about, and some voice beside his own.
The dinner-bell rang presently.
"I ordered yours brought up here," said Fred; "and I will have a little with you, then I must go back to the office."
"It is terrible, Fred! That you should have to"—
"Dignify labor," and he laughed. "Mother dear, I was so thankful to get something to do! And I am proud of making a home for you. Am I not your only son?"
"But a clerk!" Some of the old Hope disdain spoke out there. "I cannot bear to think of it—with all your education and talents and genius. I wish you had found some business. There is the five thousand dollars of the life-insurance, you know; and you could take it, though Agatha made me promise that I would not have it fooled away in any thing. But I should be glad to have you use it."
Fred stooped suddenly, and kissed her on the forehead. There was something in mother-love, after all.