It was on the twenty-fifth of April that Sophy went to Sweet-Waters. But in spite of all the familiar, springtide loveliness, this month of May was not what she had dreamed. She missed Loring. His curt letters wounded her. No—she could not be happy with this shadow between them.
But if she was not altogether content, Bobby was. He came and leaned against her knee as she was brushing her hair one morning. He was nearly six now, and spoke much more plainly. He was very fond of "grown up" words, which assumed quaint forms under his usage.
"Mother," he said, "couldn't we demain here with Uncle Joe and Aunt Chartie? Are we 'bliged to go back to Mr. Loring?"
Sophy laid down her brush and put her arm around him. His seemingly unconquerable aversion for Loring was a great grief to her.
"Bobby," she answered, looking gravely into his anxious upturned face, "don't you understand? Mother is Mrs. Loring now. She must go back to Morris."
Bobby pondered, lowering his eyes. Then he said slowly:
"Won't your last name ever be the same as mine any more at all, mother?"
"No, darling. But names matter very little. What matters is that you're my own boy, and I'm your own mother, forever and ever."
Bobby was silent. Then it broke from him:
"I hate you to have his name 'stead of mine!... I.... I hate it renormously, mother!"