“Knit new ones--stockings!” laughed Margaret Wetherby. “Why, dearie, they never in this world would wear them--and if they would, I couldn’t let you do it,” she added gently, as she noted the swift clouding of the eager face. “Such tiresome work!”
Again the old eyes filled with tears; and yet--John’s wife was kind, so very kind!
It was a cheerless, gray December morning that John Wetherby came into his mother’s room and found a sob-shaken little figure in the depths of the sumptuous, satin-damask chair. “Mother, mother,--why, mother!” There were amazement and real distress in John Wetherby’s voice.
“There, there, John, I--I didn’t mean to--truly I didn’t!” quavered the little old lady.
John dropped on one knee and caught the fluttering fingers. “Mother, what is it?”
“It--it isn’t anything; truly it isn’t,” urged the tremulous voice.
“Is any one unkind to you?” John’s eyes grew stern. “The boys, or-- Margaret?”
The indignant red mounted to the faded cheek. “John! How can you ask? Every one is kind, kind, so very kind to me!”
“Well, then, what is it?”
There was only a sob in reply. “Come, come,” he coaxed gently.