If it had been possible, she would not have told her children. She had said nothing when she had received that letter from the lawyer—such an absurd and pitiful letter, full of a sort of angry resentment, as if she had been unjustly reproaching him. She had gone to see him at once. She had been very quiet, very patient with him, and had asked very few questions about what had happened. She simply wanted to know exactly what there was left for her, and she learned that she would have fifteen dollars a month.
So she had been obliged to write to her children, and they had all wanted her immediately; but she chose her second son, because he lived nearest, and she hadn’t enough money for a longer journey. Now she was ready to go to his house.
She locked the bag and gave one more glance around the empty room.
“Well!” she said cheerfully. “That seems to be all!”
Mrs. Maxwell rose heavily from her chair.
“Jessica,” she said, not very steadily, “we’re going to miss you!”
Mrs. Deane also rose.
“Whoever else takes this room,” she added sternly, “it won’t be you—and I don’t care what any one says, either!”
Mrs. Champney put an arm about each of them and smiled at them affectionately. She was, in their old eyes, quite a young woman, full of energy and courage, trim and smart in her dark suit and her debonair little hat; but she had never before felt so terribly old and discouraged.
She couldn’t even tell these dear old friends that she would see them again soon, for in order to see them she would have either to get the money for the railway ticket from her son, or else to invite them to her daughter-in-law’s house. It hurt her to leave them like this—and it was only the beginning.