“Two. A woman. Dr. Holcomb. Oh, yes, Dr. Holcomb. Won't you come in?”
She opened the door.
Jerome entered and took off his hat. Judicially he repeated the doctor's name to keep it in her mind. She closed the door carefully and touched his arm. It seemed to him that she was terribly weak and tottering; her old eyes, however expressionless, were full of pitiful pleading. She was scarcely more than a shadow.
“You are his son?”
Jerome lied; but he did it for a reason. “Yes.”
“Then come.”
She took him by the sleeve and led him to a room, then across it to a door in the side wall. Her step was slow and feeble; twice she stopped to sing the dirge of her wonder. “First a man and then a woman. Now there is one. You are his son.” And twice she stopped and listened. “Do you hear anything? A bell? I love to hear it: and then afterward I am afraid. Did you ever notice a bell? It always makes you think of church and the things that are holy. This is a beautiful bell—first—”
Either the woman was without her reason or very nearly so: she was very frail.
“Come, mother, I know, first a bell, but Dr. Holcomb?”
The name brought her back again. For a moment she was blank trying to recall her senses. And then she remembered. She pointed to the door.