Her son tried to lift his head. "Yes, mother," he said, "but you know I've sometimes thought how good it would seem to see you in the house, dressed for staying in instead of going out, and maybe sitting by the window sewing, or in the kitchen paring apples, or lifting the lid from a pot and letting the steam out in a cloud …"
"A survival of the male superstition that Woman was born into perpetual bondage," was the crisp response.
It seemed to Everychild that some one ought to change the subject. He tried. "It's really very interesting, Mother Hubbard," he said; "and—and that's a very nice dog you've got!"
"Do you think so? Take him away with you—do! I see nothing nice about him."
By this time her son could endure no more. "He's going to take him away, mother," he said. "And he's going to take me, too. I just came to tell you good-by."
For the first time the old lady was strangely quiet. She gasped an instant and then she cried out angrily, "Good-by? And where are you going?"
"I'm going with Everychild. We're going to find the truth."
His mother turned aside. "The boy is mad!" she said. Then facing him again she demanded, "Do you know what the truth is? I'll tell you. It's this: When you get hungry and come back home, standing with one foot on top of the other outside my door, you'll find the door shut!"
There was an impressive silence for a moment, and then the Masked Lady remarked tranquilly, "If he finds the truth, no door will ever be closed to him again."
Then Tom, turning to Everychild, said—"Come, we'll go."