Then, suddenly, there came to her mind the memory of a winter afternoon, long, long ago, when Frank and Robert had been going out to skate. She had heard alarming reports about the ice, and she had run after them, bareheaded, into the garden. She could see that dear garden, bare and brown in the wintry sunshine; she could see her two boys, stopping and turning toward her as she called.
Frank had laughingly assured her that there was no danger at all. That was Frank’s way. She didn’t believe him, yet his sublime confidence in himself and his inevitable good luck somehow comforted her; and then Robert had said:
“Well, look here, mother—we’ll promise not to go near the middle of the pond at the same time. Then, whatever happens, you’ll have one of us left anyhow—see?”
And that was Robert’s way. The very thought of it stopped the dreaded invasion of tears and made her smile to herself in the dark. Such a splendidly honest way—and so devastating!
The taxi had stopped now, and Robert helped her out in a manner that made her feel very, very old and frail.
“Wait till I pay the driver, mother,” he said. “Don’t try to go alone—it’s too dark.”
So Mrs. Champney waited in the dark road outside that strange little house. Her son was paying for the cab; her son was going to assist her up the path; she was old and helpless and dependent.
Then the front door opened, and Molly stood there against the light.
“Hello, mother dear!” she called, in that big, rich, beautiful voice of hers. “Hurry in! It’s cold!”
Mrs. Champney did hurry in, and Molly caught her in both arms and hugged her tight.