He walked quickly—the man followed him at a respectful distance.
George let himself into his mother's house with a latch-key. He ran up to the little sitting room. Agnes was bending with red eyes over a kettle which was boiling on the fire. She was making a cup of tea for her mother, who had just awakened. Katie was cutting bread and butter, and Phil and Marjory were standing by the window. Marjory was saying to Phil, "I 'spect George will be turning the corner and coming home in a minute."
"Hush!" whispered Phil: "hush, Marjory! George isn't coming back any more."
At this moment the door was opened, and George came in. Marjory gave Phil a scornful glance, and flew to her big brother. Katie flung down the piece of bread she was buttering and Agnes turned from the fire. George put out his hand to ward them all off.
"Where's mother?" he asked.
"She's awake, but she has been very ill," began Agnes. "Oh, George, George, do be careful; where are you going?"
"To my mother," answered the young man. "Don't let anyone come with me—I want to be alone with her."
He went straight into the bedroom as he spoke, and shut the door behind him.
Mrs. Staunton was lying propped up high by pillows. The powerful opiate had soothed her, but the image of George still filled all her horizon. When she saw him come into the room, she smiled, and stretched out her weak arms to clasp him. He came over, knelt by her, and, taking her hot hands, covered his face with them.
"You've come back, my boy!" she said. "I'm not very well to-day, but I'll soon be better. Why, what is it, George? What are you doing? You are wetting my hands. You—you are crying? What is it, George?"