The sound of a decisive step on the stairs cut her short. "I bet a cookie that's the doctor!"
A clear, crisp, incisive voice responded to her greeting at the door, and a moment later a beardless, rather fat young fellow was confronting Victor with professional, smiling eyes. "You're not the patient," he stated, rather than asked. Victor shook his head and pointed to the bed.
With quick step the physician entered the bedroom and set to work upon the motionless form with methodical haste. He was still busy in this way when the whir of a motor car announced Mrs. Joyce.
Victor was at the door to meet her, and when she saw him she opened her arms and took him to her broad, maternal bosom. "You poor boy!" she said, patting his shoulder. "You're having more than your share of trouble."
He frankly sobbed out his penitence and grief. "Oh, Mrs. Joyce! She's gone, and I was so hard last night. I'll never forgive myself for what I said to her."
She again patted him on the shoulder with intent to comfort him. "There, there! I don't believe you have anything to reproach yourself for, and, then, remember your mother's beautiful faith. She has not gone far away. Her heaven is not distant. She is very near. She has merely cast off the garment we call flesh. She is here, close beside you, closer than ever before, touching you, knowing what you think and feel."
In this way she comforted him, and in a measure drew his mind away from the memory of his cruel and unfilial words.
Sill approached her with thoughtful glance. "Are you related to this woman?"
"No, I am only a friend," replied Mrs. Joyce; "but this is her son."
"When did you discover your mother's present condition?"