After the week-end at Atlantic City with the Wilkinsons, the days seemed interminable to John. Each evening he would walk home from work, through an open square, to his cheap boarding house; for he was living very frugally this summer, in order that his mother might have every comfort she needed. It was July now, and the evenings were hot and stifling; rejected figures sprawled on the square benches, fanning themselves with newspapers, and mopping their brows now and again with their handkerchiefs. Only the children seemed to possess any energy. A great longing seized the young man for the rest and coolness of the seashore. He was thankful it was Thursday; he would have only one more day to wait.
Cheered by this prospect, he hastened his steps to his house. When he reached the hall-way, he looked eagerly for mail. Yes, there was a letter for him—but not from Marjorie! It was in his mother’s handwriting.
Once in his own room, he sat down on his bed to read it. But he did not find the news pleasing; his mother was asking him not to come down over the week-end!
“I am taking care of a sick girl, whom I found one day on the beach, and have given her your room,” she wrote. “She has been delirious, and is very nervous now, so that I think it would be better for her not to see anyone this week.
“She seems to be a lovely girl—I like her immensely. She is eager to go to work immediately, but I want her to get well first.
“So I should rather you did not come down until next week, much as I should like to see you—”
John felt a wild surge of disappointment rush over him. What business had this stranger to come in and take his place—keeping him in the hot city, away from his mother! Then he laughed at himself—why he was as jealous as a school girl! How absurd it was to resent his mother’s helping a sick, friendless girl! He began to be glad to be able to do his part, to help her by sacrificing his own week-end.
But the time dragged on heavily, and he longed for his mother’s next letter which would tell him whether or not he might pay his accustomed visit on Friday. It was not until Thursday night that he finally received it.
“Miss Snyder is better now,” she wrote, “and I think it will be all right for you to come. She has insisted upon moving out of your room and taking the little attic one. She says she is going to find work next week.
“She is a nice little girl, and I am sure you will like her. But be very careful not to remind her of her trouble. She has lost someone very dear—but I do not know whether it is a parent, or a fiancé, or some very dear friend. But she almost goes into hysterics whenever I start to ask questions, so that I have resolved to say nothing. Perhaps she will tell us some time.”