Mrs. Champney did not sleep well that night. When she first turned out the light, a strange sort of panic seized her. She felt trapped, shut in, here in this unfamiliar room, in this house where she had no business to be, and yet could not leave. She got up and turned on the light, and that was better, for she could think more clearly in the light. She propped herself up on the pillows, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and sat there, trying to find the way out.
“There always is a way out,” she thought. “It’s never necessary to do a thing that injures other people. I must not stay here, or with any of my children. If I think quietly and sensibly, I can—”
There was a knock at the door.
“Are you all right, mother?” asked Robert’s voice. “I saw your light.”
“Perfectly all right, dear boy!” she answered brightly. “I’m very comfortable. Good night!”
“Sure?” he asked.
She wanted to jump up and go to him and kiss him—her dear, solemn, anxious Robert; but that wouldn’t do. Never, never, while she had a trace of dignity and honor, would she turn to her children for reassurance. She was the mother. She could not always be strong, but she could at least hide her weakness from her children. She could endure her bad moments alone.
“Quite sure!” she answered, and snapped out the light. “There! I’m going to sleep! Good night, my own dear, dear boy!”
“Good night, mother!” he answered.
His voice touched her so! If only she could let go, and be frail and helpless, and allow her children to take care of her! They would be so glad to do it—they would be so dear and kind!