He laughed a little over that last admission, but his mother had not yet recovered from her first amazement.
"Erskine, why didn't you tell me?"
He laughed again and bent over to kiss her.
"Mommie, you speak as though at the least I had committed forgery. How could I tell you, dearest? It was another's secret. Alice was absurdly sensitive, it is true, but of course I had to respect her wishes. She is not accustomed to being objected to, you know. There was a sense in which I came upon their secret at first, by accident, which served to make me doubly careful; I did not feel that I could speak of it even to you; though I will own that I thought it extremely foolish in Alice not to do so.
"Do you feel like being read to, mamma, or would you rather be entirely quiet to-night? Do you feel a little bit rested?"
"Yes, indeed," she told him eagerly. She was very much rested; in fact she did not feel tired at all; she would like exceedingly to be read to; or she was ready to do anything that he wished.
He looked at her curiously, and a trifle anxiously. There was something about his mother this evening that he did not understand. A few minutes ago she had looked pale and worn to a degree that was unusual; now her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were very bright. Could she be feverish? he wondered. And he mentally vowed vengeance on all formal calls.
It was nearly a week afterward that Erskine and Alice, walking home together from some society function, lapsed into confidential talk.
"How did you find my mother?" Erskine asked. "Was she able to be as glad over it all as you could wish?"
"She was lovely," said Alice, enthusiastically. "An own mother could not have shown more tenderness and lovingness. I have missed my mother all my life, Erskine, but I shall miss her less, even during this time when a girl needs her mother most, because you are so kind in lending me yours."