But this frightened him horribly—that she seemed so glad she could feel it, like a child proud of some miraculous seeming thing accomplished. It frightened him so that he could not speak, and he feared that she would know how he trembled; but she was unaware, and again was silent. Finally she spoke again:
“I wonder if—if Eugene and Lucy know that we’ve come—home.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Has he—asked about me?”
“Yes, he was here.”
“Has he—gone?”
“Yes, mother.”
She sighed faintly. “I’d like—”
“What, mother?”
“I’d like to have—seen him.” It was just audible, this little regretful murmur. Several minutes passed before there was another. “Just—just once,” she whispered, and then was still.