"Why, mother, here is a story written by my Uncle Basil and reprinted! It is called 'Bitter Bread.' It is very long." Richard turned page after page.
She neither moved nor spoke.
"And at the beginning there is a note, telling about it. Listen! 'In his small output, Basil Everman may be said to have equaled Edgar Allan Poe in originality and power. An essay "Roses of Pæstum," a vivid descriptive poem "Storm," and a single story "Bitter Bread," which we republish, were originally printed in this magazine. They prove the extraordinary genius of this young man, long since dead. Basil Everman was born in Waltonville, Pennsylvania, and died in Baltimore at the age of twenty-five. His productions surpass in quality, we believe, all other productions of their time.'
"Mother, how perfectly splendid! Aren't you pleased?" Richard waited for no answer. "He wasn't so very much older than I. Mother—" He meant to ask questions, but respect for his mother's silence was bred into him. His head bent lower. "There is another story here and another note. 'We print in this issue another story from Waltonville, a contribution very different in character, but also exhibiting the promise of talent of a high order, "Professor Ellenborough's Last Class, by Eleanor Bent."'
"Won't Scotty champ his bit?" demanded Richard as he looked up boldly. "I wonder what kind of a story Eleanor would write. I—" Richard meant to say that this was not the first knowledge he had had of her success, but he saw that his mother looked at him with fright and anger. "Mother, in the name of common sense, what is the matter with the people in this house?"
Mrs. Lister rose unsteadily.
"You have never before spoken to your mother in such a way, Richard!"
Mrs. Lister entered the door, ascended the steps, and lay down upon her couch. Richard, frightened and repentant, followed at once, and hung over her, begging to be allowed to wait upon her.
"Shall I darken the room, mother?"
"Yes, Richard, please."