“Comfort's waitin' to see you, Roscoe,” she said. “I've told her all about it.”
“YOU'VE told her—what?” I demanded, in amazement.
“About your sellin' the Lane and losin' your job, and so on. Don't look at me like that. 'Twas the only common-sense thing to do. She'd heard old Leather-Lungs whoopin' out there in the kitchen and she'd heard you and me talkin' here in the dinin'-room. I hoped she was asleep, but she wan't. After you went upstairs she called for me and wanted to know the whole story. I told her what I knew of it. Now you can tell her the rest. She takes it just as I knew she would. You done it and so it's all right.”
“Roscoe, is that you?”
It was Mother calling me. I went into the darkened room and sat down beside the bed.
She and I had much to say to each other. This time I kept back nothing, except my reason for selling the land. I told her frankly that that reason was a secret, and that it must remain a secret, even from her.
“I hate to say that to you, Mother,” I told her. “You don't know how I hate it. I would tell you if I could.”
She pressed my hand. “I know you would, Roscoe,” she said. “I am quite content not to know. That your reason for selling was an honorable one, that is all I ask.”
“It was that, Mother.”
“I am sure of it. But,” hesitatingly, “can you tell me this: You did not do it because you needed money—for me? Our income is the same as ever? We have not met with losses?”