"Shame is a strange thing," said Doctor Lavendar; "it can lift us up to heaven or push us down to hell; it gives us courage or it makes us cowards. An animal doesn't know shame."
"You mean that—that woman—?"
"I mean your mother was ashamed, John—" The young man was silent. "She tried to get away from shame by getting away from you. Now she knows that only by staying with you could she really get away from it."
"I will never call her 'mother'!" Johnny burst out.
"Miss Lydia didn't stop to consider what she was going to call you; she just took care of you. Yet you weren't as helpless as that poor woman back there in that empty house. Johnny, her little weak soul, just born to-night, will die unless you take care of it."
The young man stood still, his hands clenched. Doctor Lavendar took off his soaking wet hat, shook it, put it on again, and waited. There was only the sound of the rain and the drip-drip from the big trees along the driveway. Then the boy said:
"You said desertion could not be excused. I am ashamed to be known as belonging to her!"
"That's just how she felt about you—so she deserted you."
Silence, except for John Smith's panting breath. Down the road, through the lilac bushes, came the twinkle of a lamp in Miss Lydia's window.
"John," said Doctor Lavendar, "go to your mother. If you don't, you will be doing just what she did. Be kind to her helpless soul, as Miss Lydia was kind to your helpless body."