The afternoon is hot and long and very silent.
Mother and Peter are gone. Instinctively mother knew I wanted to be alone to meet Dimbie. How wise mothers are! She strained me to her breast, and the hot tears fell upon my face as she said "Good-bye."
"A word from you," she whispered, "will always bring me, even from the very end of the earth."
"And what about Peter, little mother?" I asked tremulously.
"Peter must remain at home."
"But I think even he is a little sorry for me," I said gently.
She turned away, trying to get her face and lips still.
"In the night I heard him say, 'My little Marguerite, my poor little girl!'" she whispered.
"Don't, mother!" A great sob burst from me. "Don't tell me things like that. Don't sympathise with me, for I cannot bear it—yet. Just take your broken girl as a matter of course. Try to pretend that I have always been helpless, crippled. Imagine me as a little baby once more, needing all your love and tenderness, but not your sympathy. It is sympathy that will make me break down, it is sympathy that will make me weep. And I am trying to keep all my strength for Dimbie. If I cry I shall become weak, and then I shan't be able to smile when he comes through the garden-gate. Don't give me sympathy, mother."
*****