He looked at her, still frowning, but with tenderness under the pain of his own brow. At last he flung himself on his knees before her and dropped his head into her lap.
He felt her hands resting on his head as though in shelter—hands that lay side by side, hands long and shapely once, but bruised and worn now with labor could he but have seen them—Aurora's hands—he could not have helped but realize her long years of toil. He heard her faint, steady sobbing now.
After a time she bent lower above his head as he knelt there, silent and motionless. Slowly her hand began once more to stroke his hair.
CHAPTER VI
THE DIVIDING LINE
The commonplace sound of the telephone's ring broke the silence in the little room. Aurora Lane arose and passed into the adjoining room to answer it. Her son regarded her with lackluster eyes when she returned.
"It was Miss Julia," said she, "at the library. She wanted to know if you were here. She says we must be sure to come out tonight."
"Come out—to what?"
"It's her annual jubilee, when she reports progress to the town. She is very proud of her new books and rugs and pictures. Everybody will be there. You see, Don, we don't have much in a town like this to entertain us. Why, if I could see a real theater once—I don't know how happy I would be. We've had movies, and now and then a lecture—and Miss Julia."