"What is it?" she asked, softly and not too soon as she stood still and held him. "What's wrong, then? Where have you been?"
"Nothing's wrong. Nothing new. I went round to Theodore Burr's, but I left there at five. I didn't mean to be late home or make work. But I had a hunch to look in at Halloran's. I thought I'd find Charlie there. I did, and I had to get him home."
"Taking your strength," said Mr. Brady's aunt, unfeelingly but truthfully, "a good-for-nothing——"
"That's not the worst thing he does."
"What is, then?"
"Talking."
"He don't mean anything by that."
"Sometimes he does. Sometimes he tells you things that you never suspected and you don't believe him at first, but you find they're true; things that have been locked up in his addled brain so long that they're out of date, and you don't know how to profit by them or handle them, but they're true—all true."
"Neil, you don't half know what you're saying. You're tired."
Mrs. Donovan released herself abruptly to get the tea-pot from the stove. Her son, who had been talking in a low, monotonous voice, more to himself than her, watched her with dazed eyes that slowly cleared.