As he asked this question Tom looked searchingly at his mother. He saw that she was thinner than she had been when he went away, and she looked paler—as though she had spent many long and weary hours bending over her sewing. And, had Tom but known it, this was the fact.
In a way he bitterly reproached himself for having gone to West Point, leaving her to fight the battle of life alone, and when he hinted at this, and frankly offered to resign and seek some employment that would bring in a large immediate return, she said:
“No, Tom. You must keep on as you have started. This is to be your life-work. You will have only one chance, and you must take advantage of it. We can stand a little privation now for the sake of what will come afterward.”
“But I don’t want you to stand privation, Mother. It isn’t fair that I should have it easy while you work so hard.”
“Are you having it easy, Tom?”
She looked at him closely as she asked this.
“Well, the fellows don’t call it easy,” he admitted.
“I understand,” she said smiling. “Now don’t worry about me. I am making enough to live on. You are paying your own way, and a little more, though I wish I could send you some money occasionally.”
“I couldn’t use it!” he said, with a laugh. “I haven’t exhausted my Academy credit yet.”
“Well, it won’t be very much longer,” she went on with a sigh. “The next two years will go past quickly, and then——”