It is an old and a deep-rooted thing, the child’s faith in the mother’s judgment. If the mother has been honest and wise, if the child has been never deceived or disappointed by her, then, no matter how old he grows, or how far he may go from her, that old and deep-rooted faith lives in him. Robert, at twenty-six, was surer of himself than he was ever likely to be again. He was certain that all his ideas were his own, and that no living creature could influence him; yet he was terribly afraid of what his mother might think of Molly.
For, after all, his mother was the standard, and the home she had made for him in his boyhood must forever be the standard of homes. She would see that this home of Molly’s was not like that. She would think—
“You needn’t worry, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Champney gently. “I’m sure I’ll understand Molly.”
And no more than that. It wouldn’t do to tell him what she really thought of Molly. It would sound exaggerated and insincere. It would startle him, and it might conceivably make him contrary; so she held her tongue.
Presently Molly came in from the kitchen, flushed and smiling, and sank into a chair.
“Take off that apron, old girl,” said Robert.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Molly. “I always forget!”
Robert took it away into the kitchen.
“Too tired for a song, Molly?” he asked when he returned.
“Of course I’m not!” said she, getting up again.