Wherever else she might be, he should have plenty of opportunities of seeing her at his leisure. He reached his home and found his mother waiting for him in his study. She was pale and looked tired.
“I suppose you’ve heard?” she said, interrogatively, as he entered. “I see it’s in all the papers.”
“Yes,” answered John, gravely. “I’ve been talking with Ham Bright—we left the bank together.”
“I suppose he’s in the seventh heaven,” said Mrs. Ralston. “Who would ever have expected such a will?”
“I’m sure I didn’t. May I smoke, mother? I haven’t had a chance all day.”
“Of course—always smoke. I like it. Jack—I’ve been there most of the day, you know. I went in twice to look at him. What a grand old man he was! I wish you could see him lying there on white velvet like an old king.”
“I don’t like to see dead people,” answered Ralston, lighting a cigar. “Besides—I was fond of him.”
“So was I. Don’t think I wasn’t, my dear—very fond of him. But you and I don’t look at those things just in the same way, I know. I wish I could see them as you do—dream of something beyond, as you do. To me—feeling that it’s all over, and that he is there, dead on his bed, and nowhere else, all there is of him now, or ever will be—well, I was glad to see him as I did. I shall always remember him as I saw him to-day. I wish I believed something. To me—the only hope is the hope of memory for good things and forgetfulness for bad things, as long as life lasts. I’ve got another good memory of a good man I was fond of—so I’ve got something.”
“It’s a depressing sort of creed,” said Ralston, smoking thoughtfully. “Not that mine’s worth much, I suppose. Still—”
He let the word imply what it might, and puffed slowly at his cigar. Mrs. Ralston passed her hand over her eyes, and said nothing in answer.