The whimsical child in the man, even on this dark day, broke loose.
"Feed me," he said. "Don't think I'm a fool for asking; but feed me. I mean it. 'Twill comfort me. I'm cruel miserable, though not to the eye."
Of old she remembered his follies and fancies.
"When you was young you was always like a little, silly, petted bird or puppy," she said, smiling.
"So I often am still--and especially when I'm down on my luck. There's no dear, silly mother to pet me no more and make me chirrup again. How she would do it! Feed me, Madge."
She held a sandwich to his mouth.
"One more."
"Here's four more. Eat 'em quick. And then I must get going."
One by one she put the morsels of food to his lips, and laughed at him, in spite of herself, while she did so. Then he thanked her and declared that he was much the better and happier for her charity.
"Mother's in heaven," he said. "And I'm going to her again some day. If a man believes that really, and doesn't only fool himself to think he believes it, 'tis the greatest comfort of all. And I didn't ought to be miserable to-day, and I'm damned if I will be."