A sudden fear seized Jill. She felt her forehead cold.
"No----" she tried to smile--"How could I know?"
"I was praying for John." She looked up simply into Jill's face. "He's such a dear boy, you don't know. Look at the way he comes every year to see us--all the way from London. I wonder would any other son do as much. Do you think they would?"
She asked the question as naïvely as if, were there any doubt about it, she really would like to know. You might have known there was no doubt in her mind.
Before that little altar then, was a dangerous place to discuss such subjects. Jill drew her gently away towards the door.
"Do you think there are any other sons have such a mother?" she said. "Why don't you ask yourself that question?"
The little old lady looked up with a twinkle in her eyes. "I thought perhaps you'd understand it better that way," she answered. "Besides--it's easy to be a mother. You have only to have a son. It's not so easy to be a son, because you need more than a mother for that."
Jill looked at her tenderly, then bent and kissed her cheek.
"I think John's very like you," she whispered. She could not keep it back. And that was as much as the little old white-haired lady wanted; that was all she had been playing for. With her head high in triumph, she walked back with Jill to join the others.
Soon afterwards Jill declared she must go; that her friends would be waiting for her.