Since Lieutenant Purcell had already left for Washington this avenue of help was closed. Morey’s mother, of course, could be of no more assistance than a child. Never before had Morey felt so lonesome. For the first time he realized that he was fatherless and alone. When night fell a breeze came down from the mountains and it became too cool to stay outdoors. Mrs. Marshall, who had been sitting on the decaying gallery, retired to the musty old parlor and after Mammy Ca’line had lighted the crystal-hung table lamp, she made herself comfortable with an ancient copy of Dickens. Morey, standing by her side, gazed upon the shadowy painting of his father.
Suddenly, out of the new longing in him, came an inspiration; he bethought him of his father’s old room and desk and papers. Perhaps there might be something there, some scrap to help him in his dilemma. He had no idea what there might be among his father’s things. But at least, since he had never even looked inside the desk, he wished to do so. He did not speak of what was in his mind, for the room and its contents were held almost sacred by his mother.
Slipping quietly from his mother’s side, he had not reached the door when she recalled him.
“Mortimer,” she said in her tone of fine breeding, “I have been worrying about you all evening. We have not been considerate enough. I have been thinking of your dear father.”
“Yes, mother, so have I.”
“Major Carey says you take after me in some respects.”
Morey smiled.
“It is your father you resemble. This wild fancy of yours is natural. If your father had had his way—”
Then she paused and sighed.